'Good gracious!' cried white-haired Mrs Barclay from the top of the table, 'what can have happened to the two? They must have gone out together. Gone out a raw wretched morning like this without breakfast! I never heard of such a thing. Miss Osborne, have you any notion of what has become of your brother?' 'No, Mrs Barclay, not the least. He said nothing about it last night, and he left no message. Perhaps he got a letter or telegram this morning obliging him to go out early.' 'Maybe so. Maybe so! I'll ring and ask. Without his breakfast such a morning! Why, it's enough to give him his death.' A servant answered. 'Did you take the letters out of the box this morning?' 'Yes, ma'am.' 'Were there any for Mr Osborne?' 'No, ma'am.' 'Nor a telegram?' 'No, ma'am.' 'Well, I'm sure I never heard of such a thing. They must have gone out together. But it is strange that Mr Nevill should have said nothing about going out. Miss Osborne, are you sure there is nothing the matter? You are looking very white.' 'I am quite well,' answered Kate. She felt perplexed about her brother, and confused about Nevill. She had passed a wakeful night. Two or three times before a man had seemed to court her society, but upon the introduction of anything like sentiment she had immediately and resolutely drawn back, and given the candidate wooer to understand she desired him to abandon the pursuit. Nevill had of late amused and diverted her. At first she had stood in mortal terror of that rattling tongue which dealt so freely with everyone, everything. Of late that feeling had worn away, and she could listen to his nonsense with a relish. She had never met anyone like him before; and when the shock of novelty had been overcome by time, she felt no repulsion from him or his rodomontade. She had never thought of the possibility of his falling in love. He was, she imagined, the last man in the world likely to marry and settle down. She had no more thought of his falling in love with her than of the Archbishop of Canterbury asking her to run away with him. What he had said when they were alone yesterday struck her as being peculiar, nothing more. It perplexed, puzzled, distressed her, that was all. It had, to her, no more indicated love than a polite bow indicates a proposal of marriage. All it had meant to her was that insensibly she had given him cause of disquietude. She would have been glad to remove that uneasiness by any assurance or proof she could give; but he had clung to the delusion with the greatest pertinacity until he turned over a new leaf of his mysterious book, and confessed he had been only playing at being hurt! He had, he said, invented a grievance to try an experiment, the nature of which he would not then divulge. She had tried to guess what that experiment could be, but failed. She had felt surprised and alarmed to think this man had been, unknown to her, trying experiments on her; but whether these experiments had been in repartee or mesmerism, she could not say. She had had no clue whatever to his meaning. Now she held the clue, but what an extraordinary, what an unlooked-for one it was! Although she had the clue to the experiment, she did not know what the experiment was. The clue was, he loved her! Could anything be more extraordinary than that he who had been over half the world, had seen girls of every degree of accomplishments and beauty, should single out her as the woman he would make his wife? She could not believe he was in earnest. She would again read the letter over after breakfast. When she found herself in the privacy of her own room, she took the letter out of her pocket and read it twice over carefully. Beyond all doubt, he was in earnest. Besides, no man of ordinary feeling plays at such matters. He asked for an immediate reply, and there was every reason for answering him at once. What should she say? What should she say? The position was one of the greatest difficulty. George was gone away. That was extraordinary enough. Even Marie did not know where George had gone. How awkward! No doubt Mr Nevill had gone out and taken George with him, to break to him what he had done, and to hear his opinion. What should she do? It was plain this letter ought to be answered in some way at once. George was out, and there were no means of learning when he would be back. What should she do? It was very awkward and depressing. What should she do?' There was no one she could talk to but Marie. She would go to Marie and tell her of this thing. Marie was now almost her sister, and having had such great experience in the world, no doubt she could tell her exactly what to do. Marie was greatly puzzled by George's absence. She thought it almost careless of him to leave no word when he was going out that he would not be back for breakfast. The people at the place now knew something was going on between them, and leaving in this way aroused remark and drew eyes upon her. When saying good-night last night, he had been most affectionate, had thanked her for that song, and blessed God his sweetheart had a voice that was better than a sermon. She wasn't in the least angry with him. Who could be angry with George? Her George! her master! her lord! What they were to do to-day she did not know. Nothing had been settled yesterday. How she wished George would come back! Breakfast had been so lonely and dreary without him. She had never been in love before. It was infinitely delightful, but it was hard to bear when he was away. Love was peace and rest and security when he was by; but when he was away it was a sick, sad yearning, a growing want. How often at breakfast that morning she felt when the door-handle moved she could see his face through the door. When the door did open and admitted a servant or some stout guest, she had felt first as if she wished that person dead, and then as if she would like to go up to her room and cry. Of course George had an excellent reason for going out and staying away; but what was the use of reason when she wanted to see George? It was all very well saying, 'He has a good reason; he has a good reason.' You might go on saying that with your mind or your lips as long as you liked, but the minute you stopped, your heart called out twice as loud, 'I want George. I want my love.' 'O'Connor, is that you?' 'The same, if it be pleasing to you, Miss Gordon.' 'Why are you so very stately, O'Connor?' 'Out of regard to what is on your third finger, Miss Gordon. You are now the next thing to a married lady, and of course it's only right and proper you should have more respect from me now than before.' 'O'Connor.' 'Yes, Miss Gordon.' 'Have you had your breakfast?' 'Yes, Miss Gordon.' 'I think your month was up last Saturday. 'Yes, miss.' 'Well, you have often expressed a wish to leave me. You can do so now, if you wish.' 'Child, do you mean it?' 'Yes, I mean it.' 'Why? What have I done?' 'Did you not come into this room now with the intention of annoying me?' 'Of course I did.' 'Well, I can have no more of this.' 'But you didn't let me. You stopped me before I began.' 'I saw what was coming. I might have borne it, only for the very circumstance of which you spoke. I gave you full scope before, but now I can no longer allow you to speak of my private affairs in an ill-tempered way; you would be sure and say something I could not endure. You must go, O'Connor. I'll pay you what I owe you and three months' wages. You can go back to Cork, and no doubt it will be for your benefit.' 'Child, what way are you talking?' 'I mean what I say, all of it, O'Connor.' 'And you're turning me away really, after all this time, for saying what you never let me say? Is that fair or reasonable?' 'I am letting you go because you would be quite sure to annoy me beyond endurance in a few days, and I will not run that risk.' 'But maybe I wouldn't, child. Maybe you'd stop me then as you did now.' 'No, O'Connor. We must part.' 'When I gave you impudence before, you always told me not to say I'd go away to Cork; and now, before I give you any impudence at all, you tell me to go. Child!' 'Yes, I am listening.' 'Let me say what I was going to say, child, and if I say anything about going back to Cork, stop me and tell me to go away for a foolish girl, and forgive me, child, forgive me this once. Let it be like the old time, before any man came between us. Do, child, do. For the love of heaven don't send me away like that. There, child, you're crying as bad as I am myself. Don't break our two hearts. I'll be foolish no more. There, child, forgive me this once. You know I'd die for you. You know I worship the ground you walk on. It's only when my love gets out of my heart into my head I forget myself and all I owe you. Child, do not send me away. Give me one more chance. The time is cold enough without sending me away. There, child, don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Is it I made you cry? Oh, misfortune on me, is it I made her cry? God above, forgive me. Child, child, is it because I am staying, not going, as you told me, you are crying? Is it? tell me, and I'll go at once. Tell me, child, is it because I am staying when you tell me to go that you are crying?' 'No.' 'And is it because you are sending me away you are crying? Tell me, child. Is it because you are sending me away you are crying?' 'It is.' 'There, now. There, now, don't cry any more. Don't cry any more. Why, child, do you think if it makes you cry for me to leave you that any mortal body could ever make me go? Not he. Why, yourself couldn't. The foolishness of your sending me away and making yourself cry when you can keep me and dry up your tears! There, there, now, dry up your eyes. You needn't be in the least afraid I'll go. Nothing in the world would make me go now. I did often think of leaving you, but now I won't speak of it again. Dry up your eyes now, child, and say no more about it. I'm not a bit put out. I'm not indeed. That's right. Now you're looking yourself again. When Cork catches a hold of me never mind. You mustn't let Mr Osborne see your eyes red like that; for if he found out that I did that, he'd turn cross on me and want me to go away, which of course I couldn't do. Here's the rose-water and the glass. That's it. There, now. Sit back and rest yourself. I'll go away. You don't want me. Won't you ring, child, if you want me? I'll sit on the stairs. Who's there? Miss Osborne!' 'Marie, I want a little chat with you, if you have time.' 'Come over and sit down, Kate,' said Miss Gordon, as Judith O'Connor left the room, shutting the door after her. 'Marie,' said Kate, standing over the other, 'you have been crying because George went out without telling you he was going. I can tell you why he is gone, although I don't know where.' 'No, Kate, I have not been crying about George. I am quite satisfied with him. I know he has good reason for everything he does. O'Connor has been annoying me.' 'O'Connor ought not to be borne with. Why don't you send her about her business? You tell me she is always threatening to leave you. Why don't you let her go?' 'I told her to go this morning.' 'Well?' 'And she refused.' 'Why not make her go?' 'She won't go. I told her most plainly, but she said nothing would ever make her leave me. I know I shall carry her with sorrow to the grave. Let us not bother about O'Connor, dear. You said you knew why George had gone away. If you like, you may tell me.' 'I don't like to tell you. But I fear I must.' 'Fear you must! Is it very bad?' asked Marie, looking up with alarm in her eyes. 'Oh no. Not bad that way,' said Kate, moving towards the window, and looking out to conceal a marked rise of colour. 'Then bad what way? What is it about?' 'About me.' 'And what is it about you, Kate?' 'Mr Nevill--' 'Oh, I see. Mr Nevill has spoken out at last, has he?' 'No.' 'Well, then, I'm at a loss. I don't know what else could have happened. Are he and George gone out together?' 'I think so.' 'Rut why on earth all this mystery on their part?' Why didn't George know last night?' 'Didn't know what?' 'Why, Kate, you are as mysterious as the men.' 'That Mr Nevill had written to me.' 'Write, did he? Oh, I see--I see. And what did he say?' 'He said he likes me.' 'Well, that is not a very remarkable thing. Now, if he said he didn't, I'd answer his letter by telling him I thought him very original; but as it is, Kate, you cannot say anything more complimentary than that you have every reason to believe his judgment in this matter is perfectly sound.' 'And--and he says he'd like I'd like him.' Marie rose and went to the window, and put her arm silently round the other girl's waist and drew her softly towards her. 'And I think,' went on Kate, averting her head, 'he must have gone to George's room early this morning and taken George with him.' Marie said nothing, but drew Kate still closer to her. Kate went on,-- 'And I am in a great difficulty, for this letter ought to be answered at once; and George is out, and I don't know what to say, so I have come to you for advice.' 'Do, Kate, whatever you think best.' 'If I was to do what I should like, I'd call a cab and drive to the railway station, and go home at once, without answering the letter at all.' 'But that would be cruel to him, and I suppose he has not done anything to annoy or offend you.' 'Oh no, he has been most kind. I do not mean to do anything of the sort. I mean to answer his letter at once, but I don't know what to say.' 'The only way I can help you is to suggest that you write him such a letter as you would have wished me to write if George had written to me. Can't you do that?' 'I'll try!' Marie kissed Kate, and Kate sobbed awhile, and then went back to her own room to answer Nevill's offer of love. That evening late she posted the following letter to Nevill, addressed to the care of Messrs Stainsforth & Co., Lombard Street:--
'Dear Mr Nevill,--I am greatly pained to think you should have thought we avoided you yesterday. When we were called out of the drawing-room we were introduced to the husband of a great friend of Miss Gordon's. He asked us to dinner, and we promised to go. When we got back to the drawing-room you had gone. George must have forgotten to leave a message with the servants for you. 'You have done me honour far above my merits in offering me your love. I was unprepared for anything of the kind. I will be quite frank with you. I have never thought of marrying, and have never thought of your asking me to marry you. My feelings towards you are those merely of friendship, and more I cannot promise. I hope you will believe me that I have a sincere regard for you, nothing more. If I have given you any cause to think I looked on you in any other light than that of a friend, I hope you will forgive me. Believe me, I never thought of you as anything else. 'Let me again thank you for the honour you have done me, and ask your forgiveness for any uneasiness I have unknowingly caused you; and I wish you all the happiness and success in the world, and that you may soon forget
Kate Osborne.'
She finished the writing of this letter by two o'clock. Still George had not come back. She remained in her own room most of that day, fearing if she went down she might meet Mr Nevill. Of a meeting with him she now stood in deadly terror. She would do anything on earth now rather than meet William Nevill; why this was she could not tell. Three, four, five came, and still no George. What could have happened to him? At ten minutes past five Marie came up. She had been out shopping. She had asked and learned that neither Nevill nor Osborne had been in the house since morning. This absence of both for so long a time could scarcely be explained by the mere fact of Nevill wanting to speak to Gordon about his proposal to Kate, What could it mean? If that letter was to go by to-night's post, it must be carried downstairs now. Marie rang for O'Connor, and the letter was sent away for post. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and still neither came. As eleven struck, the door of the drawing-room opened, and George Osborne, pale as a ghost, walked into the room!
When it grew near the breakfast-hour of that day, George Osborne paused awhile in his walking, and, leaning against the parapet of London Bridge, thought for a few moments. 'She will miss me if I am not in for breakfast. My Marie will miss me if I do not go back now. Miss me.' Something in the word hurt his heart, and, instead of turning back into the City, he crossed the bridge and walked straight on. It was now day, and thousand after thousand of people passed him hurrying into the City for the day's work. The dull and listless condition of mind in which he had set out had gradually left him, and he was now looking about him, and trying to interest himself in the people and things surrounding him. How eager these people seemed hastening to their daily toil! They looked chiefly of the clerk class. What a dreadful thing it must be to live all the daylight of one's life over a desk! Never to see wooded valley or corn-plains! These men had less than three pounds a-week, and had to dress decently. Most of them were married men with families. How did they live? What pleasure could they take in their lives? Daily they rose at seven, ate breakfast, and hurried into the warehouses. There they drew laboured breath over dreary desks hour after hour, until the warehouse closed. There were hundreds of thousands of such men now in the City, or speeding towards it. And what was all this dull routine for? Merely that they might live. Nothing more. There was before ninety-nine out of a hundred clerks no chance of promotion. Here they were rushing by hundreds of battalions into their pent-up offices, merely that they might live another week. What object could life be to them? Why should they submit to such a lot for the mere privilege of drawing breath a few more hours, when there was no room for speculation in these hours? When there was an absolute certainty of future days being exact counterparts of past ones. It was humiliating to think of man, who was destined to rule the earth while upon it, and hereafter to-- 'Ugh! that terrible thought again. What, could it be all things should come to nothingness? All things? All people? Philosophers had held life a comedy or a tragedy. Here, if there was anything in what had lately reached him, life was a farce, a hideous hollow farce. A wicked cruel farce. A farce for whose enjoyment? No. It can't be a farce played by man for his own amusement; for man is not aware it is a farce, and if he was it would only drive him to desperation. 'And yet the facts are so cogent, the reasoning is so close. I can make nothing of it. Nothing. Is the individuality of man nothing? Are my mother and my sisters, who are self-conscious and sympathetic now, endowed with beautiful spirits and ample faith, are they nothing but what we can see and feel and hear? Is man merely a machine for the carriage and use of five senses? Monstrous!' He put the thought away and occupied himself with the things around him. The Elephant and Castle, the best-known public-house in the world, had changed hands for forty thousand pounds. What an enormous price for one house of that size. Here again what surprising traffic! Day and night this goes on without cessation. Of course the people are fewer by night, but there are always some passing. There are always people of some kind passing this point. In the most quiet watches of the morning, from two to five, stragglers go by. Some coming home jaded after a night of pleasure, some heavy with the burden or the spoil of a night of crime, some to heal the sick, some to receive the last words of the dying, some to hear the first cry of the newborn, some flying from their homes for ever, some returning after an absence of many years, some fleeing in terror the scene of their first sin, some coming back after what is destined, though they know it not, to be a last carouse, some on their way to Bedlam, some on their way to Waterloo Bridge and the Morgue. London Road. What a world of suggestion there is in the name of this street, and what an arrogance! As though this were the only road leading to this enormous town. This vast concrement of humanity. Blow all the bugles of the British regular army. Sound the alarm: all the troops of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland that can be got together, are needed for the defence of London against a foreign foe. March them all in here, by this London Road. See the prodigious length they stretch to, the infantry in fours, the cavalry in twos, the artillery gun after waggon, waggon after gun. Men and horses, what a splendid show! Where will they find barrack-room, this army? Not in houses, surely. They must camp in the parks and squares. Mile after mile of men. Ten hours these men take to march through London Road, the infantry in fours, the cavalry in twos, the artillery waggon after gun, gun after waggon. Thirty miles of men, more than enough to allow a man for every ten yards in the circumference described within the twelve-mile radius. More than enough to stretch in a solid column marching in fours and twos from Her Majesty's Arsenal at Woolwich to Her Majesty's Castle at Windsor. This vast host, with all its baggage, could never find house-room even in vast London? As easily as a single traveller at a great hotel. Every year this town adds a greater number of souls to its millions that are in than army, absorbs a vastly greater number of horses, and ten times the personal baggage. For what are these thousands of men hurrying into this vast human camp every year? To seek employment, pleasure, oblivion, fame, instruction, solitude, wealth, friends--and to find in the end--a grave. Yearly an army equal to that just passed through London Road comes to increase London, over and above its yearly loss. Among those who had come into London to find pleasure and instruction was he himself. What had he found? Love. Oh Life, thou givest to us woman and earth. Oh Love, thou transmutest woman and earth into goddess and Paradise! Oh Life, thou givest to us full sensations in our pulses! Oh Death, thou takest Goddess and Paradise and sensations all away! Cruel Life, to give us woman and earth! Vile Love, to give us goddess and Paradise! Blessed be kindly Death, that putteth all our pains and all our longings, all our hopes and all our sorrows, all our memories and all our dreams away for ever in the great sable storehouse of forlorn void! Once more George Osborne banished thought as, leaving London Road, he passed through St George's Circus into Westminster Bridge Road. Here he confined himself to observing the surging traffic and the general broken-down look of shops, houses, people. He crossed Westminster Bridge, and stood at the end of the bridge under the Clock Tower. 'London Bridge, which I crossed this morning, is the bridge of commerce. This is the bridge of conquest and of power. At London Bridge begins the sea England rules; at Westminster Bridge lies the first rood of land England owns and legislates for. That is the bridge of enterprise, this of dominion. This is the bridge of contrasts. Here, in Westminster, are the richest and the poorest people of all England, cheek-by-jowl. Here all the laws for the country are made; here, under the shadow of this tower, new laws are first broken. Statesmen and legislators sit here night after night, giving their time and knowledge and experience and energy to framing laws against the predatory and murderous castes of the State. While the legislators are devising means for the protection of infant life, from the Terrace may be heard the splash of the helpless bundle of life dropped into the river by the murderous mother. She has walked quickly by the Millbank Penitentiary, and dropped her child over the wall of Millbank Row. In front of a prison, by night, is the most secure place for murder. While the light burns on that Tower where they are discussing the propriety of applying the cat-o'-nine-tails to the garroter, within view of that light shines another upon the bloodstained watch and chain passing from the hands of the garroter to the hand of the receiver of stolen goods. 'Here above me stand the Houses of Parliament, that hospital for diseases of the State. Across the water is that noble range of buildings for diseases of the body; and there behind stands the Abbey for diseases of the--behind there stands Westminster Abbey for--the burial, of the illustrious dead. Is that all the Abbey does for man? Good God! if that is so, what are the whole three worth?' He turned away from the parapet of the bridge, and, passing up Great George Street, continued his way by Birdcage Walk. He had not moved very rapidly. It was now eleven o'clock. He had paused frequently on the way, and more than once he had thought of telegraphing to her, but something, he did not try to find out, had stopped him. 'I can explain all when I see her,' he had two or three times said to himself. And then, with a mental shudder, he had added, 'Can I? Ah! can I?' He had a theory that nothing cleared up a man's mind so much as a long walk. The variety of objects and persons, the exhibition of various arts and trades and occupations in operation, dwarfed one's personality. The manifestation of multitudinous interests, the cries and sounds, the broken sentences caught from mouth after mouth as he went by, enlarged the horizon, and placed a man more in the position of an audience than an improvisatore. In a room, or any small circumscribed place, a man's own importance insisted on attention; but out in this great bustling world of London, who but a fool could think his own affairs, worldly or spiritual, of much moment? At Buckingham Palace he drew up. Although the day was dull and cheerless, and the streets and roads covered with a thin slippery layer of glutinous mud, many idle people were abroad. Here, at his back, was the town residence of the Sovereign, the most constitutional, the mightiest ruler in the world. Generation after generation had come down, through various channels, the noble blood which flowed in her veins. What history was so free from records of tyranny as that of England? In old times, when people knew no better, deplorable acts had been done. But then the general condition of things was, from our point of view, deplorable. Bit by bit our great Constitution had been put together. Bit by bit our great Empire had been built up. Over the great Council of this Empire for two hundred years the lawful sovereign had reigned in almost unbroken peace and security. There was no empire in the world in which it was not possible to realise a plot to dethrone the sovereign but England. One could conceive an outburst of socialism in Germany, attended with danger to the Emperor. But if any man said there was in England a conspiracy to remove the Queen from the throne, we should look upon him as one suffering from acute hallucination. The rulers of England had come down through generation after generation hand-in-hand with the people. Here was St James's Park, into which the windows of the royal residence looked, and in which Her Majesty could see many of the least rich or gifted of her subjects enjoying themselves quietly and innocently. What an anachronism these sentinels outside the Palace were! Did the wildest for a moment fancy anyone wanted to harm the Queen? But then there were those two mounted men at the Horse Guards; and yet it was to be supposed no one thought any burglar had an intention of carrying off the clock. What a glorious thing to see people and sovereign linked so together, keeping in the front rank of civilisation, and carrying civilisation and Christianity--carrying civilisation, Christianity-- 'Great God, deliver me from this terrible haunting spirit of doubt! Give me back full faith and peace.' Now he began to hurry. He went up Constitution Hill, crossed Piccadilly, and entered the Park at Hyde Park Corner. There were very few people here now. It was dreary and desolate. The bare trees looked sad and deserted in the bleak grey air. They seemed the forgotten skeletons of funeral plumes that had waved over the dead season. Nothing here appealed to his imagination. He continued his walk. Having followed the Serpentine for some minutes, he broke off from it near the Humane Society's House, and found his way out of the Park in the Bayswater Road through the Victoria Gate. He walked to his left, and turned up into Kensington Garden Terrace, and thence into the Grand Junction Road. Keeping north and following the bend of the road, he came into the Marylebone Road. He held on until he came to Park Square; he turned into the west side of Park Square; then taking a wheel to the right, and then one to the left, he entered the Broad Walk of Regent's Park. 'The Zoological Gardens!' he exclaimed to himself, with an inward shudder. He was moving away to go, when he suddenly thought, 'Coward.' Am I a coward? Am I afraid to look any of God's creatures in the face?' He turned on his heel and entered the Gardens. Like the Park, they were almost deserted. But, unlike the Park, they were full of interest to him. Some of the books he had recently been looking into, had begun as treatises on natural history, and ended as indictments against faith. It was a little past two o'clock, and few people were in front of the cages, so he had every opportunity of inspecting the collection. He looked into cage after cage with steady disliking eyes. There was a feeling of impulsion towards the cages, and repulsion from the creatures behind the bars. The grey and gloomy day deadened his spirits. He had slept nothing the night before. He had eaten nothing that day. He did not notice the weather was dull. He did not remember he had not slept. He had no knowledge of whether he had eaten or not. All he knew was, he was trying to beat down his mind, and he thought open air and exercise were the best remedies for his disease. But this zoological collection had been thrown across his path like a challenge, and come what might, he had taken up the glove. For half-an-hour he wandered from cage to cage, until at last he stood in front of the monkey-house. He paused awhile here, looked from right to left, as though he would avoid the place if he could, then set his face resolutely, and entered. As with the rest of the place, the monkey-house was almost deserted. There were not more than a dozen people in it. In chill fear he wandered around, looking with mingled fascination and loathing at the chattering crew. Moment after moment his spirit sank lower until all the light and beauty had faded out of the world for him; and he stood in the presence of ruin and desolation more complete than reigns over the site of Carthage or Babylon. Stone by stone that splendid Palace of his dreams was falling. This shock made a rift, that shock cast down a tower. Now a delicate campanile fell, anon a noble dome collapsed. It was weary work watching these men and these creatures shaking the foundation of that beautiful Palace of Belief. All, all was going. All was gone. There was nothing but a dreary waste, a vast sandy void, littered here and there with the shaft of a shattered column, here and there a frieze, here the acme stone of an arch, there the copper of a cupola, here a marble altar-stone, and there a cross. One of the attendants touched him on the arm, saying, 'We have something new here, sir, if you care to see.' With a shudder, Osborne followed the man into a small room off the greater one. The man led him up to a large square box made of stout wood. In this was a bundle of rugs or skins; George could not see more, for the light was dim. The covering moved slightly; with a spasm of horror Osborne thought of that vision and that dream. What an appalling coincidence! Was he awake or asleep, sane or mad? The man bent over him and spoke in a low voice. 'They have just arrived from Africa. They came over in the stoke-hole of the steamer. They are perfectly quiet and friendly. On the passage over they lived in that box, where the female sat all day long minding her baby. But the male made great friends with the men, and, after a while, used to take the oil-can, crawl or swing himself in among the machinery, put the back of his left hand on the bearings, and then pour oil into the oil-wells.' The man drew away the covering. Osborne started back in disgust. 'I never saw Niggers like these before,' he whispered. 'Niggers!' said the man. 'These are no Niggers.' 'In the name of God, then, what are they?' 'Chimpanzees,' Those ruins of the old faith were no longer lifeless. Now over them leaped and bounded ten thousand forms of loathsome brutes. They leaped and danced, and howled and screamed and yelled, They grinned at him and grimaced. They took up the relics of that sacred palace, that holy fane, and smashed and tore and cast them about. They broke up the cross, and the most powerful and the most crafty of the brutes took a piece of the wood between his palms and, keeping one end of it in the smooth hollow of a stone, turned it and turned it, until it began to smoke and flame. Then each brute that had a piece of the wood lit his at the brand, and holding their flaming torches aloft, they formed a circle round the altar-stone, set upon the stone, the brute that had made the fire, and all bowed and worshipped him. 'The reign of the Beast! The reign of the Beast! The reign of the Beast!' Now he was walking once more through unknown streets, walking wildly, so that people turned to look after him, and policemen watched him with professional glances. He did not notice the streets; he did not see people or police. He was moving at a racing pace, in a north-easterly direction. His eyes were now blazing with the light of fever. That carnival of the Beast lay behind him; its sounds were in his ears. If he looked back he knew he should behold its sight once more. Anything was better than that. On, on, on! His face was flushed; the sweat rolled down his forehead; he was all bespattered with mud. If he met a group on the pathway he did not try to get through it, he sprang out into the roadway. In the neighbourhood of the Cattle Market he got into a blind street. When he reached the end he cast his eyes up at the wall, as though he were about to try to scale it. He stamped with impatience when he found he must retrace his steps. When he turned around he ran to the end of the street, and when he had cleared it walked, at his former high rate of speed, in a less northerly direction. To pause was to think; to think was to be lost. When he paused to think, he should come upon some idea more unendurable than those now haunting him. That final thought must be avoided at any hazard, any cost, On, in God's name, on! The clamour of that hideous rite of the Beasts was in his ears. He heard them chatter and jabber; he heard them still breaking up the last fragments of that noble temple, that superb palace, built by the love and faith and enduring self-sacrifice of ages. He could not hear the words they uttered, but they were appalling, like human words. He could hear them singing and clamouring around their hideous god! Ugh! 'On, on, on! Kill thought; dull those odious sounds in the clatter of one's feet, the beatings of one's heart. On, in God's name, on! Bride Street, Albion Road, Holloway Road, St Paul's Road, Grosvenor Road, Newington Green Road, Albion Road, Albion Grove, Victoria Road, Church Road; then to the right, then to the left, then to the left again. 'It is getting dark. Where am I?' It was not until night had begun to fall he asked that question of himself. He stood awhile to get breath; he wiped his forehead, and leaned against a lamp-post for support. The strain upon his physique began to tell now, and he felt a little exhausted. It was close upon five o'clock. After a few moments he stopped a passer-by, and asked,-- 'What street is this?' 'London Road.' 'London Road! Can that be? Have I completed the circle--have I walked all the way round? But no; this is not the same place--I have not recrossed the river. Are you quite sure this is London Road?' 'Oh, perfectly sure; I live here. There is another London Road--at least, I know of one other; there may be several. Pray, where did you start from?' 'The London Road I speak of is at the Surrey side.' 'Quite right. That is London Road, Lambeth; this is London Road, Hackney. You are a good way from where you started; as the crow flies it can't be less than four to five miles.' 'I walked by Buckingham Palace and the Zoological Gardens.' 'By Jove! you have had a long walk! Good-night.' Another London Road! Another road arrogating the name of the great capital! This morning he saw pass by him a vast host of men, equal in number to the yearly increase of this one town. He had been walking ever since, and had never been out of London, Now he was in another London Road, and it was dark night! What solemn procession now approached? What vast host of sable forms now walked slowly by? They will go on walking thus for thirteen hours at quick march, and still they will not have all marched by. They will take two hours more than the host of the morning, and yet they will not have gone by. They have no horses, they have no baggage; they bear nothing in their hands, nothing on their backs; they have no haversacks slung at their sides, no water-bottles at their girdles; they bear no arms, no accoutrements, no ornaments, no decorations of any kind. Their hands hang by their sides, they do not look to the right or the left. They do not speak, or laugh, or curse; their jaws are tied securely up. This is the contingent marched by death out of London every year; these are the eighty thousand of our brethren who every twelve months leave London for the grave. The grave--the grave, Only the grave! Yes, a thousand times better the grave and darkness--nothingness--than life under the reign of the Beast. 'O God, look down upon me--have mercy upon me--have mercy.... Yes, yes; I'll go there at once. The thought may be an answer to my prayer.' 'Which is the way to the City, please?' he asked a policeman. 'To the right, into Stoke Newington; then straight on to your left will bring you into Cornhill.' He started off once more at his old speed--He felt a little spent at first, but the excitement soon entered into him, and he swung along with even greater vigour than early in the day. 'I will think no more till I am there, I will think no more. Now then, if my limbs are ever to be of any use to me, let it be to-day, On past the flashing shops, over the slippery flags, out on the grimy road. Past lamp-post and cart, and barrow and cab, and private house and doctor's lamp, and policeman and civilians, and women and children, On, as though they were grass and I a whirlwind. A cab would take me there sooner, but it would not give me the relief this walking affords.' For half-an-hour he kept on this pace. Then he paused, and asked his way again. After going on a few hundred yards more he turned to the right out of Bishopsgate Street into Threadneedle Street, on through the Poultry, through Cheapside. At the end of Cheapside! It was close upon six o'clock when he reached the churchyard, and mounting the steps of the northern porch, entered St Paul's. The cathedral was dim, silent, solemn. He glanced up and around with a cowed, hunted look. It was only a few hours since he had been in that church. What a terrible night and day he had had since! Enough to break down a man's reason. Yes, this was the proper place to come to when one was in trouble. No book of reasons had so subtle an influence as this mighty pile, raised up by religious souls to be a calming canopy for mental woe and spiritual travail. He sat down awhile. Yes, he was growing calmer, cooler, more collected. He bent his head in prayer. Suddenly he looked around wildly, and gasped. There were few now in the cathedral, and no one near him. 'It will not come!' he cried mentally. 'It will not come! O God, be merciful to me, and do not drive me mad!' A hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned around, and looked up slowly. 'What, you, Nevill, here, alone!' 'Yes, here, alone,' with a quiet smile that flickered off his face in a moment, and left an anxious, worn expression behind. 'What are you doing here at this time?' 'I have been very anxious about a certain thing. I could not stay in the house. I have been here and there, and everywhere all day, and I came in here this instant to--' 'To what?' 'To ask a great favour from Heaven.' 'What,you!' cried Osborne. 'Yes, I.' 'What was the favour made you think of praying? I came here, too, to ask a great favour.' 'I came here to ask that I might be less irreligious in the future, and that--that one I have asked to marry may not refuse me.' 'Come away,' said Osborne. 'Come away; I can stay here no longer.' As they passed into the vestibule, Nevill said,-- 'You look queer, Osborne. What is the matter?' 'I came, like you, to ask my faith back.' 'What, you!' 'Yes; and it has not come.'
As Osborne and Nevill descended the steps of the cathedral, the former became conscious of weakness. He passed his arm, through one of his companion's. For awhile both walked on in silence. They were too much occupied with the conflict between their thoughts and their feelings for words. Nevill felt: 'Oh, if I should lose her, what will become of me? I never was serious in my life until now. What a fearful thing it is to go on all one's days treating life as a jest, and then come suddenly upon a fair shy girl, whose word can make life a tragedy or an idyl!' He thought,-- 'What can have happened to Osborne? He amazes me. How can he have lost his faith? Find a love and lose a faith! Monstrous! Find a love and find a faith was the rule. Love first wakened young men to religion. They loved; they could not believe the object of their idolatry was mere clay, destined to melt back into earth, like an apple or snow. He cannot endure the idea that when his eyes close, or when hers, they are to see each other no more. That is what roused me up first. It was the dread that I should lose her for ever when I die that made me think of what I was taught when I was young, and see its beauty and its truth. But Osborne, Osborne, Osborne, how is it with him?' Osborne's thoughts were much less clearly defined. He wondered what brought Nevill there, but the wonder was ill-defined and weak. He was in no particular anxiety to find out why Nevill went to St Paul's. He had a general dim idea that the circumstances fitted in with something in his own case; he was too indolent, too tired, too worn, too weak, too miserable, to try and see where the coincidence lay. But his feelings made up in intensity for the vagueness of his thoughts. Heaven and heaven on earth were vanishing from him at the one time, through the one agency. The same sly awful hand that stole his faith away would steal his darling away also. Oh, misery and desolation! As a last resource he had come to that great temple. When his mind seemed tottering, and the ground was tottering beneath his feet, when the pillars of the heavens were shaken over his head, when the clangour of words falling headlong into ruin had horrified his ears, he had fled to that holy fane, that noble pile, raised by pious hands, frequented by pious souls. He had tried with all his might to force back what had escaped him. He' had failed. The carnival of the beast continued, and, hideous thought, loathsome degradation, intolerable fate, he was compelled not only to look on, but to take part in that revolting saturnalia of reason. Lose her? Of course he should lose her. What could prevent him losing her? Nothing. Oh dreary, bald world, what wert thou made for? What was he made for? Oh mockery, to call into existence such worship of the Divine, such loyal, unselfish love of her as his had been, to snatch both away from him at one swoop, in one fell hour! He could not bear the idea. In order to shut it out he spoke. 'I have had a very long walk. I have eaten nothing all day. You must think me mad, Nevill. I am not quite out of my senses, but I am far from sane,' he said. 'We are just like two newly-convicted felons chained together for the first time. Each of us knows the other has a story that would interest him, and that he will hear; each is so absorbed in his own history he cannot free his mind enough to take any interest in the circumstances of the other,' said Nevill, by way of reply. 'No felon was ever more wretched than I am now; but in other respects I am not as you describe. I am very willing, very anxious, to hear your story. If telling it will relieve your mind, listening to it will distract mine; and I have now no bitterer enemy than my own thoughts.' 'My story,' cried Nevill, 'is one of the commonest in the world; and of all men in the world you are the one I most wanted to meet to-day.' 'I am glad to meet you, Nevill, that is if I can be glad for anything now. What did you want me for?' 'I want to tell you I am in love.' 'Yes, I supposed as much from what you said in the church.' 'I have never been really in love before, and I want you to tell me what you think of me as a man.' 'My dear Nevill, what a question!' 'It is one I am most anxious you should answer honestly. Stop! I must not say honestly. I know enough of you to be certain you are incapable of the smallest, even conventional, dishonesty. Tell me, Osborne, what you think of me as a man?' 'So far as I have seen, I think very highly of you. What an extraordinary position you place me in, Nevill!' 'I place you in an awkward position now, in the hope that you will allow me to place you in a certain other position some day.' Osborne, for the first time, looked at Nevill. He saw the man was haggard and scared. He himself was too much exhausted to take more than a languid interest in the conversation so far. Now he roused up a little, and said,-- 'Go on with what you have to say.' 'What you have told me emboldens me, Osborne. Do you think I should make a bad husband?' 'No, certainly not. This is a still more extraordinary question to ask me.' 'You will see, later on, a good deal depends on it. Suppose a girl were very dear to you, the dearest in all the world, Osborne--' 'Yes,' answered Osborne, drawing up and looking into the eyes of the other. 'Would you advise her to reject an offer of marriage from me?' 'What on earth do you mean, man? You are putting me in a most horrible position, and I don't think you are behaving honourably.' 'Honourably, Osborne! Honourably! Take care.' The dull cheeks flushed, and a light of warning came into the eyes. 'Well, speak on at once, man, and then we shall run no risk of misunderstanding one another.' 'If I proposed to your sister Kate, and she accepted me, would you object to her marrying me?' 'My sister Kate! Do you mean my sister Kate?' 'Yes. Who else did you think I meant?' 'Miss Gordon.' 'Miss Gordon! Good heavens! Osborne, you didn't think me such a scoundrel as to make love or propose to the girl you are engaged to?' 'And have lost,' added Osborne, dropping his chin on his breast, and resuming walking. 'Lost!' cried Nevill. 'Lost! What do you mean? It is you now who are mysterious. What do you mean by lost?' Osborne raised his head and gazed into the other's eyes with a look of desperate hope. 'Nevill, you will answer me a question if I ask you one, as I have answered you, honestly?' 'Most assuredly.' Osborne had not answered the most important question of all, but he could wait. 'Suppose you loved a woman with all your heart and soul--suppose it was your first love-' 'All that is very easy, for it is my case.' 'Suppose you had been accepted, that you believed you were loved in return, that there was no material impediment to your marriage, that you put on the engaged ring with all the solemnity of a private religious service, and that, in putting it on, you extracted a vow from the girl, would you ask that girl to break that vow the next day?' 'My dear fellow, vows spoken in that way do not bind.' 'I think you an honourable man. If you, at the time of engagement, exacted a vow from the girl, would you, as an honourable man, ask your sweetheart to break her vow?' 'It is you who now place me in a horrible position.' 'You can answer. As an honourable man, would you ask your sweetheart to break her vow?' 'As an honourable man I would not. But how does this lose you Miss Gordon?' 'Because if she keep her vows she must not have me.' 'But why, in the name of Heaven?' 'Because I made her vow never to marry any man who did not belong to the church she had been brought up in. She made the vow. And now--' He paused. 'Well, Osborne, and now--' 'I belong to no church. I have lost my faith. I can never, as an honourable man, ask her to marry me.' 'But, my dear fellow,' said Nevill, in a tone of encouragement, 'you never yet knew a woman who refused to marry the man she cared for because of his religious beliefs or disbeliefs.' 'That has nothing whatever to do with the question. The question is, should a man ask the woman he loves to break a solemn vow for his sake? A quick flush of pleasure shot over Nevill's face. By putting Kate in such a position towards him, Osborne indicated, unintentionally no doubt, that he had no objection to him, Nevill, as a brother-in-law. 'Suppose Kate were engaged to you, and at the time of your engagement you asked her to make a solemn pledge never to marry any man who did not conform, would you ask her to break that vow and marry you, though you did not conform?' 'I cannot bring the question home to myself in that way. My case is the direct opposite. How can you be so silly as to lose your faith now that you have won all you want in the world?' 'There is no good in our going into an argument, Nevill. We must take things as they are. I will not press you for an answer. I know what it would be.' 'Although,' said Nevill slowly, deliberately, 'I cannot bring the situation home to me so as to make it mine, I am sure I can give you good advice in the case. You must first of all be prudent, and say nothing for awhile. What has suddenly left you may suddenly come back.' Osborne shook his head drearily. 'I don't say it will. I say it may. Why should it not come back to you as to me? Surely there is a case in point. Here am I, who have been a wanderer all my life, who believed I never should settle down, who cared nothing for spiritual matters, now come almost quite round, turning religious, and thinking of settling down. Why should not such things happen to you?' Again Osborne shook his head. 'You cannot say; you cannot know,' urged Nevill. 'Give yourself time and a chance. I do not see why you should be in any haste about it. The day for the wedding is not fixed yet?' 'No.' 'Very good, Osborne. Don't hurry matters,' said Nevill, forcing a gaiety that would not come naturally. 'Don't hurry matters, and we may make it a double event.' Once more Osborne shook his head. Once more an expression of pleasure passed over Nevill's face. It was quite plain Osborne would not oppose his approaches to Kate. George was now in too disturbed a state of mind to press home the question, and, indeed, there seemed to be no need to press home the question at all, for he had inferentially answered it favourably. For hours they walked about arm-in-arm through the chill dark streets. Now they skirted the enclosures of quiet squares; now they pushed their way through the crowd of a street thronged with people. Nevill was killing time, Osborne was trying to leave memory behind. Anything was better than to recall the past. Even the future might be more cheerfully faced. The future, the future--what was the future? What could the future bring to him? What could the future be to him? Merciful heavens, was he to pass the rest of his days in Benares, worshipping in the temple of Hunooman? Horrible fate! What had he done to merit this? At last, when it was past ten o'clock, Osborne drew up. 'Nevill,' he said,' I can walk no more. Come home.' 'No, no. I am not going back to-night. I could not breathe the air of that place until I am certain. I shall walk about until I am worn out; then I'll get a bed at some hotel or other. I cannot go back until I get Kate's answer. If it is favourable, and I can satisfy you as to my position, and so on, you won't object to me, will you?' 'No, Nevill; no. She is a good girl, Nevill.' 'The best in the world.' 'Oh, Nevill, I had such a dream of my future life. And now there is nothing of it left. It is all gone.' 'It will come back again. Give it time.' 'It will never come back again. Nevill, my life is over before it has well begun.' 'Say nothing to her about it for awhile, and all may be well.' 'She will notice my changed manner.' 'It will be time enough to explain when she speaks.' 'Good-night.' 'Good-night.'