Lord Hunsdon had already bought an album in Charlestown, and after copying the sonnet several times to practise his chirography, he inscribed it upon the first page—a pink one—signing it “Your most obedient Hunsdon,” with an austere flourish. Then he carefully wrapped the album in tissue paper and sent it to Anne’s room, with strict orders to his man not to leave it unless she were quite alone. The best of men have their vanities; the idea that the superior Mary Denbigh or the satirical Miss Bargarny might witness the offering’s arrival was insupportable.

Anne was alone and unfolded the large square package with much curiosity. It was one of those albums that the young ladies of her day loved to possess; indeed, so far, she had been the only girl in Bath House without one, and had read the flattering verses in several with some envy. This tribute was sumptuously bound in brown calf embossed with gold, and all the leaves were delicately tinted. She turned over the pale greens and pinks, blues and canaries, with that subtle indefinable pleasure that colour gives to certain temperaments. She had not glanced at the servant, and fancied the album a present from Lady Constance. When she saw the signature on the first page she stared, for Lord Hunsdon was the last person she would have suspected of cultivating the muse. She began the sonnet with a ripple of laughter, but paled before she finished. Trifling as it was she recognised it as the work of Byam Warner. She could never be mistaken there. It resembled nothing of his that she knew, but the grace of the verse, the fine instinctive choice of words, the glitter and sweep of phrase, belonged to him and none other. Her heart leaped as she wondered if it were not the first bit of verse he had ever written while sober. And she had inspired it! The thought brought another in its train and she went suddenly to her window and stared through the jalousies at the dazzling sunlight on the palms, for the first time seeing nothing of the beauty of Nevis.

The poem had been written from himself to her. A phrase or two not intended for Hunsdon’s unsuspecting eye assured her of that. It was not an old sonnet furbished up to fit the purpose of a friend. And fragile as the thing was, still it was poetry—and he had written it when sober—and to her——

She repeated this discovery many times before she could give shape to the greater thought building in her brain. It was a beginning, a milestone. Might it not be within her compass to influence him so indelibly that his muse would continue to wake at her call, at the mere thought of her, with no aid from that foul hag of drink, which of late had almost made her hate his poetry as the work of a base alliance? She believed that if he did not love her he was yet so deep in admiration that she could inspire him with a profound attachment if she chose. And the result? If only she were a seer, as certain of her Scotch kin claimed to be. A hopeless love might inspire him to the greater work the world expected of him; she had read of the flowering of genius in the strong soil of misery. But he had suffered enough already, poor devil! The result of loving for the last time, with no hope of possession, might fling him from Parnassus into the Inferno, where he would roast in unproductive torment for the rest of his mortal span. Even that might not be for long. He looked frail enough beside these fresh young English sportsmen, or even the high-coloured planters, burnt without and within.

It was a terrible question for any woman to be forced to ask, particularly were she honest enough to confess that no woman should ask it. What right had she to put her finger into any man’s destiny unless she were willing to take the consequences and share that destiny if invited? But that no woman could be expected to do. Why could he not have realised her mental picture of him: that glorified being with whom she had dwelt so long? She sighed as she recalled her many disillusionments of the past few weeks. Bath House was the world in little. It seemed years since she had left Warkworth Manor. She found that world a somewhat mean and sordid place. She still loved the gaiety and sumptuousness of her new life, for it appealed to inherited instincts. But she had not found a responsive spirit. The young married women were absorbed in their children or their flirtations. The girls were superficially read, “accomplished,” conceited, insincere, with not an aspiration above getting a husband of fortune. Lady Mary, alarmed at last, was become cool and spiteful. Lady Hunsdon was almost an enemy. Lady Constance seemed to have more heart than most of her ilk in spite of her caustic tongue, but she hardly made a sympathetic companion for a romantic young girl brought up in the country. It was true that she had recently made an interesting acquaintance in Miss Medora Ogilvy, the clever daughter of one of the planters, who vowed she loved her and swore undying friendship; but Anne needed more time to reciprocate feelings so ardent, particularly in her present state of mind.

On the whole she liked the young men better, as they were less spiteful and petty, but they had read little and the only subject of which, barring sport and society, they had any real knowledge, was politics, and this they vowed too fatiguing for the tropics. They preferred the language of compliment, they loved to dawdle, to hold a skein of worsted, to read a novel aloud, or “The Yellowplush Papers” or selections from “Boz”; when tired of female society, or when it was too hot to hunt or fish, they retired to the gaming tables. Anne had never dreamed that the genus man could be so little stirring, and although she was flattered by their attentions, particularly by those of Mr. Abergenny, and her natural coquetry was often responsive, for mere youth must have its way, she was appalled by her general sense of disappointment and wondered what her future was to be. She had no desire to return to her manor, and for a season in London she cared as little. She would have been glad to remain on Nevis, but to this she knew that Mrs. Nunn would not hearken. London was inevitable; and possibly she would meet some intelligent and interesting man who would help her to bury romance and fulfil the proper destiny of woman.

She wondered to-day as she had wondered once or twice before, could she have loved Byam Warner in spite of his unlikeness to her exaggerated ideal had she found him a normal member of society, as fine in appearance as his years and his original endowment deserved. It was a question to which she could find no answer, but certainly his conversation, could she but permit herself to enjoy it, must be far superior to that of anyone else on Nevis. And a flirtation with the poet of the day would have been exciting, something to remember, a feather in her cap. She had her share of feminine vanity—it grew daily, she fancied—and it was by no means unfed by the manifest admiration, possibly love, of this great poet in his ruin. Whatever his tribute might be worth, it was offered to none but herself, and if the man were beneath consideration the poet was of a radiance undimmed.

Suddenly it occurred to her that did he tread his present straight and hygienic path for a full year he might indeed be his old self when next she came to Nevis. The island was healthy at all seasons, those who lived on it were immune from fever. Nature would remake what Warner had unmade too early to have destroyed root and sap. Many a man had sown his wild oats and lived to a hale old age. Would that mean that next winter Byam Warner would be handsome, attractive, confident? She often heard the good looks of his youth referred to, and there certainly were the remains of beauty in that wrecked countenance. His eyes were sunken, but they were still of a deep black gray, and they daily gained in brightness. His hair was almost black, and abundant. The shape of his head and brow and profile were above reproach, for dissipation had never grossened him. But his face, although improving, was still haggard and lined and stamped with satiety; his mouth betrayed the wild passions that had wrecked him, and was often drawn in lines of bitterness and disgust. There was nothing commanding in his carriage, such as women love, and his manners were too reserved, too shy, to fascinate her sex apart from the halo of his fame. A return to health and vigour might improve him vastly, but nothing could ever make him a dashing romantic figure; and although sometimes a light came into his face that revealed the poet, commonly he betrayed not an inkling of his gifts. But even so he might be more worth while than any man she had met so far, whatever the great world might have in store; and she wished that his reformation had been accomplished the winter before and she were now in enjoyment of the result. Then she found distaste in the thought that she might have had no hand in his reclamation, and was glad to recall his hint that but for her he would never have crossed the threshold of Bath House. And then she was overwhelmed with the sense of her responsibility. It was not for the first time, but not until to-day had she faced the question of how far she ought to go. And even to-day she did not feel up to reasoning it out. She knew too little of the world, of men; there was no one to whom she could go for advice. She re-read the sonnet, determined to be guided by events, registered a vow that in no case would she shirk what she might believe to be her duty; and then wrote a prim little note of acknowledgment to Lord Hunsdon.