William Black

JUST as Frank Lavender went down stairs to meet Ingram, a letter which had been forwarded from London was brought to Sheila. It bore the Lewis postmark, and she guessed it was from Duncan, for she had told Mairi to ask the tall keeper to write, and she knew he would hasten to obey her request at any sacrifice of comfort to himself. Sheila sat down to read the letter in a happy frame of mind. She had every confidence that all her troubles were about to be removed, now that her good friend Ingram had come to her husband; and here was a message to her from her home, that seemed, even before she read it, to beg of her to come thither light-hearted and joyous. This was what she read:

“Borvapost, the Island of Lewis,
“the third Aug., 18—.

“Honored Mrs. Lavender:—It waz Mairi waz sayin that you will want me to write to you, bit I am not good at the writin whatever, and it was 2 years since I was written to Amerika, to John Ferkason that kept the tea-shop in Stornoway, and was trooned in coming home the very last year before this. It waz Mairi will say you will like a letter as well as any one that waz goin to Amerika, for the news and the things, and you will be as far away from us as if you waz living in Amerika or Glaska. But there is not much news, for the lads they hev all pulled up the boats, and they are away to Wick, and Sandy McDougal that waz living by Loch Langavat, he will be going too, for he waz up at the sheilings when Mrs. Paterson’s lasses was there with the cows, and it waz Jeanie the youngest and him made it up, and he haz twenty-five pounds in the bank, which is a good thing too mirover for the young couple. It waz many a one waz sayin when the cows and the sheep waz come home from the sheilings that never afore waz Miss Sheila away from Lock Roag when the cattle would be swimmin across the loch to the island; and I will say to many of them verra well you will wait and you will see Miss Sheila back again in the Lews, and it wazna allwas you would lif away from your own home where you waz born and the people will know you from the one year to the next. John McNichol of Habost he will be verra bad three months or two months ago, and we waz thinkin he will die, and him with a wife and five bairns too, and four cows and a cart, but the doctor took a great dale of blood from him, and he is now verra well whatever, though wakely on the legs. It would hev been a bad thing if Mr. McNichol was dead, for he will be verra good at pentin a door, and he has between fifteen pounds and ten pounds in the bank at Stornoway, and four cows, too, and a cart, and he is a ferra religious man, and has great skill o’ the psalm-tunes, and he toesna get trunk now more as twice or as three times in the two weeks. It was his dochter Betsy, a verra fine lass that waz come to Borvabost, and it waz the talk among many that Alister-nan-each he waz thinkin of making up to her, but there will be a great laugh all over the island, and she will be verra angry and say she will not have him, no, if his house had a door of silfer to it, for she will have no one that toesna go to the Caithness fishins wi the other lads. It waz blew verra hard here the last night or two or three. There is a great deal of salmon in the rivers; and Mr. Mackenzie he will be going across to Grimersta the day after to-morrow, or the next day before that, and the English gentlemen have been there more as two or three weeks, and they will be getting verra good sport whatever. Mairi she will be writen a letter to you to-morrow, Miss Sheila, and she will be telling you all the news of the house. Mairi was sayin she will be goin to London when the harvest was got in, and Scarlett will say to her that no one will let her land on the island again if she toesna bring you back with her to the island and to your own house. If it waz not too much trouble, Miss Sheila, it would be a proud day for Scarlett if you waz send me a line or two lines to say if you will be coming to the Lews this summer or before the winter is over whatever. I remain, Honored Mrs. Lavender, your obedient servant,

“Duncan Macdonald.”

“This summer or winter,” said Sheila to herself, with a happy light on her face: “why not now?” Why should she not go down stairs to the coffee-room of the hotel and place this invitation in the hand of her husband and his friend? Would not its garrulous simplicity recall to both of them the island they used to find so pleasant? Would not they suddenly resolve to leave London and its ways and people, even this monotonous sea out there, and speed away Northwardly till they came in sight of the great and rolling Minch, with its majestic breadth of sky and its pale blue islands lying far away at the horizon? Then the happy landing at the Stornoway—her father and Duncan and Mairi all on the quay—the rapid drive over to Loch Roag, and the first glimpse of the rocky bays and clear water and white sand about Borva and Borvabost! And Sheila would once more—having cast aside this cumbrous attire that she had to change so often, and having got out that neat and simple costume that was so good for walking or driving or sailing—be proud to wait upon her guests, and help Mairi in her household ways, and have a pretty table ready for the gentlemen when they returned from the shooting.

Her husband came up the hotel stairs and entered the room. She rose to meet him, with the open letter in her hand.

“Sheila,” he said (and the light slowly died away from her face), “I have something to ask of you.”

She knew by the sound of his voice that she had nothing to hope; it was not the first time she had been disappointed, and yet this time it seemed especially bitter somehow. The awakening from these illusions was sudden.

She did not answer, so he said, in the same measured voice: “I have to ask that you will have henceforth no communication with Mr. Ingram; I do not wish him to come to the house.”

She stood for a moment, apparently not understanding the meaning of what he said. Then, when the full force of this decision and request came upon her, a quick color sprang to her face, the cause of which, if it had been revealed to him in words, would have considerably astonished her husband. But that moment of doubt, of surprise, and of inward indignation, was soon over. She cast down her eyes and said, meekly: “Very well, dear.”

It was now his turn to be astonished, and mortified as well. He could not have believed it possible that she should so calmly acquiesce in the dismissal of one of her dearest friends. He had expected a more or less angry protest, if not a distinct refusal, which would have given him an opportunity for displaying the injuries he conceived himself to have suffered at their hands. Why had she not come to himself? This man Ingram was presuming upon his ancient friendship, and on the part he had taken in forwarding the marriage up at Borva. He had always, moreover, been somewhat too much of a schoolmaster, with his severe judgments, his sententious fashion of criticising and warning people, and his readiness to prove the whole world wrong in order to show himself to be right. All these and many other things Lavender meant to say to Sheila so soon as she had protested against his forbidding Ingram to come any more to the house. But there was no protest. Sheila did not even seem surprised. She went back to her seat by the window, folded up Duncan’s letter, and put it in her pocket; and then she turned to look at the sea.

Lavender regarded her for a moment, apparently doubting whether he should himself prosecute the subject; then he turned and left the room.

Sheila did not cry or otherwise seek to compassionate herself. Her husband had told her to do a certain thing, and she would do it. Perhaps she had been imprudent in having confided in Mr. Ingram, and if so, it was right that she should be punished. But the regret and pain that lay deep in her heart were that Ingram should have suffered through her, and that she had no opportunity of telling him that, though they might not see each other, she would never forget her friendship for him, or cease to be grateful to him for his unceasing and generous kindness to her.

Next morning Lavender was summoned to London by a telegram which announced that his aunt was seriously ill. He and Sheila got ready at once, left by a forenoon train, had some brief luncheon at home, and then went to see the old lady in Kensington Gore. During their journey Lavender had been rather more kind and courteous toward Sheila than was his wont. Was he pleased that she had so readily obeyed him in this matter of giving up about the only friend she had in London, or was he moved by some visitation of compunction? Sheila tried to show that she was grateful for his kindness, but there was that between them which could not be removed by chance phrases or attentions.

Mrs. Lavender was in her own room. Paterson brought word that she wanted to see Sheila first alone; so Lavender sat down in the gloomy drawing-room by the window, and watched the people riding or driving past, and the sunshine on the dusty green trees in the Park.

“Is Frank Lavender below?” said the thin old woman, who was propped up in bed, with some scarlet garment around her, that made her resemble more than ever the cockatoo of which Sheila had thought on first seeing her.

“Yes,” said Sheila.

“I want to see you alone. I can’t bear him dawdling about a room and staring at things, and saying nothing. Does he speak to you?”

Sheila did not wish to enter into any controversy about the habits of her husband, so she said: “I hope you will see him before he goes, Mrs. Lavender. He is very anxious to know how you are, and I am glad to find you looking so well. You do not look like an invalid at all.”

“Oh, I’m not going to die yet,” said the little dried old woman, with the harsh voice, the staring eyes, and the tightly twisted gray hair. “I hope you didn’t come to read the Bible to me; you wouldn’t find one about, in any case, I should think. If you like to sit down and read the sayings of the Emperor Marcus Antoninus, I should enjoy that; but I suppose you are too busy thinking what dress you’ll wear at my funeral.”

“Indeed, I was thinking of no such thing,” said Sheila, indignantly, but feeling all the same that the hard, glittering, expressionless eyes were watching her.

“Do you think I believe you?” said Mrs. Lavender. “Bah! I hope I am able to recognize the facts of life. If you were to die this afternoon, I should get a black silk, trimmed with crape, the moment I got on my feet again, and go to your funeral in the ordinary way. I hope you will pay me the same respect. Do you think I am afraid to speak of these things?”

“Why should you speak of them?” said Sheila, despairingly.

“Because it does you good to contemplate the worst that can befall you, and if it does not happen you may rejoice. And it will happen. I know I shall be lying in this bed, with half a dozen of you around about trying to cry, and wondering which will have the courage to turn and go out of the room first. Then there will be the funeral day, and Paterson will be careful about the blinds, and go about the house on her tip-toes, as if I were likely to hear! Then there will be a pretty service up in the cemetery, and a man who never saw me will speak of his dear sister departed; and then you’ll all go home and have your dinner. Am I afraid of it?”

“Why should you talk like that?” said Sheila, piteously. “You are not going to die. You distress yourself and others by thinking of those horrible things.”

“My dear child, there is nothing horrible in nature. Everything is part of the universal system which you should recognize and accept. If you had but trained yourself now, by the study of philosophical works, to know how helpless you are to alter the facts of life, and how it is the best wisdom to be prepared for the worst, you would find nothing horrible in thinking of your own funeral. You are not looking well.”

Sheila was startled by the suddenness of the announcement: “Perhaps I am a little tired with the traveling we have done to-day.”

“Is Frank Lavender kind to you?”

What was she to say with those two eyes scanning her face? “It is too soon to expect him to be anything else,” she said, with an effort at a smile.

“Ah! So you are beginning to talk in that way? I thought you were full of sentimental notions of life when you came to London. It is not a good place for maturing such things.”

“It is not,” said Sheila, surprised into a sigh.

“Come nearer. Don’t be afraid I shall bite you. I am not so ferocious as I look.”

Sheila rose and went closer to the bedside, and the old woman stretched out a lean and withered hand to her: “If I thought that that silly fellow wasn’t behaving well to you—”

“I will not listen to you,” said Sheila, suddenly withdrawing her hand, while a quick color leapt to her face—“I will not listen to you if you speak of my husband in that way.”

“I will speak of him any way I like. Don’t get into a rage. I have known Frank Lavender a good deal longer than you have. What I was going to say is this, that if I thought he was not behaving well to you, I would play him a trick. I would leave my money, which is all he has got to live on, to you; and when I died he would find himself dependent on you for every farthing he wanted to spend.”

And the old woman laughed, with very little of the weakness of an invalid in the look of her face. But Sheila, when she had mastered her surprise and resolved not to be angry, said calmly, “Whatever I have, whatever I might have, that belongs to my husband, not to me.”

“Now you speak like a sensible girl,” said Mrs. Lavender. “That is the misfortune of a wife, that she cannot keep her own money to herself. But there are means by which the law may be defeated, my dear. I have been thinking it over—I have been speaking of it to Mr. Ingram; for I have suspected for some time that my nephew, Mr. Frank, was not behaving himself.”

“Mrs. Lavender,” said Sheila, with a face too proud and indignant for tears, “you do not understand me. No one has the right to imagine anything against my husband and to seek to punish him through me. And when I said that everything I have belongs to him, I was not thinking of the law—no—but only this: that everything I have, or might have, would belong to him, as I myself belong to him, of my own free will and gift; and I would have no money or anything else that was not entirely his.”

“You are a fool.”

“Perhaps,” said Sheila, struggling to repress her tears.

“What if I were to leave every farthing of my property to a hospital? Where would Frank Lavender be then?”

“He could earn his own living without any such help,” said Sheila, proudly; for she had never yet given up the hope that her husband would fulfill the fair promise of an earlier time, and win great renown for himself in striving to please her, as he had many a time vowed he would do.

“He has taken great care to conceal his powers in that way,” said the old woman, with a sneer.

“And if he has, whose fault is it?” the girl said, warmly. “Who has kept him in idleness but yourself? And now you blame him for it. I wish he had never had any of your money—I wish he were never to have any more of it.”

And then Sheila stopped, with a terrible dread falling over her. What had she not said? The pride of her race had carried her so far, and she had given expression to all the tumult of her heart; but had she not betrayed her duty as a wife, and grievously compromised the interests of her husband? And yet the indignation in her bosom was too strong to admit of her retracting those fatal phrases and begging forgiveness. She stood for a moment irresolute, and she knew that the invalid was regarding her curiously, as though she were some wild animal, and not an ordinary resident in Bayswater.

“You are a little mad, but you are a good girl, and I want to be friends with you. You have in you the spirit of a dozen Frank Lavenders.”

“You will never make friends with me by speaking ill of my husband,” said Sheila, with the same proud and indignant look.

“Not when he ill-uses you?”

“He does not ill-use me. What has Mr. Ingram been saying to you?”

The sudden question would certainly have brought about a disclosure if any were to have been made; but Mrs. Lavender assured Sheila that Mr. Ingram had told her nothing, that she had been forming her own conclusions, and that she still doubted that they were right.

“Now sit down and read to me. You will find Marcus Antoninus on the top of those books.”

“Frank is in the drawing-room,” observed Sheila, mildly.

“He can wait,” said the old woman, sharply.

“Yes, but you cannot expect me to keep him waiting,” with a smile which did not conceal her very definite purpose.

“Then ring, and bid him come up. You will soon get rid of those absurd sentiments.”

Sheila rang the bell, and sent Mrs. Paterson down for Lavender, but she did not betake herself to Marcus Antoninus. She waited a few minutes, and then her husband made his appearance, whereupon she sat down and left to him the agreeable duty of talking with this toothless old heathen about funerals and lingering death.

“Well, Aunt Lavender, I am sorry to hear you have been ill, but I suppose you are getting all right again, to judge by your looks.”

“I am not nearly as ill as you expected.”

“I wonder you did not say ‘hoped,’” remarked Lavender, carelessly. “You are always attributing the most charitable feelings to your fellow-creatures.”

“Frank Lavender,” said the old lady, who was a little pleased by this bit of flattery, “if you come here to make yourself impertinent and disagreeable, you can go down-stairs again. Your wife and I get on very well without you.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said: “I suppose you have been telling her what is the matter with you.”

“I have not. I don’t know. I have had a pain in the head and two fits, and I dare say the next will carry me off. The doctors won’t tell me anything about it, so I suppose it is serious.”

“Nonsense!” cried Lavender. “Serious! To look at you one would say you never had been ill in your life.”

“Don’t tell stories, Frank Lavender. I know I look like a corpse, but I don’t mind it, for I avoid the looking-glass, and keep the spectacle for my friends. I expect the next fit will kill me.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Aunt Lavender, if you would only get up and come with us for a drive in the Park, you would find there was nothing of an invalid about you; and we should take you home to a quiet dinner at Notting Hill, and Sheila would sing to you all the evening, and to-morrow you would receive the doctors in state in your drawing-rooms, and tell them you were going for a month to Malvern.”

“Your husband has a fine imagination, my dear,” said Mrs. Lavender to Sheila. “It is a pity he puts it to no use. Now I shall let both of you go. Three breathing in this room are too many for the cubic feet of air it contains. Frank, bring over those scales and put them on the table, and send Paterson to me as you go out.”

And so they went down stairs and out of the house. Just as they stood on the steps, looking for a hansom, a young lad came forward and shook hands with Lavender, glancing nervously at Sheila.

“Well, Mosenberg,” said Lavender, “you’ve come back from Leipsic at last? We got your card when we came home this morning from Brighton. Let me introduce you to my wife.”

The boy looked at the beautiful face before him with something of a distant wonder and reverence in his regard. Sheila had heard of the lad before—of the Mendelssohn that was to be—and liked his appearance at first sight. He was a rather handsome boy of fourteen or fifteen, of the fair Jew type, with large, dark, expressive eyes, and long, wavy, light-brown hair. He spoke English fluently and well; his slight German accent was, indeed, scarcely so distinct as Sheila’s Highland one, the chief peculiarity of his speaking being a preference for short sentences, as if he were afraid to venture upon elaborate English. He had not addressed a dozen sentences to Sheila before she had begun to have a liking for the lad, perhaps on account of his soft and musical voice, perhaps on account of the respectful and almost wondering admiration that dwelt in his eyes. He spoke to her as if she were some saint, who had but to smile to charm and bewilder the humble worshipper at her shrine.

“I was intending to call upon Mrs. Lavender, madame,” he said. “I heard that she was ill. Perhaps you can tell me if she is better.”

“She seems to be very well to-day, and in very good spirits,” Sheila answered.

“Then I will not go in. Did you propose to take a walk in the Park, madame?”

Lavender inwardly laughed at the audacity of the lad, and, seeing that Sheila hesitated, humored him by saying, “Well, we were thinking of calling on one or two people before going home to dinner. But I haven’t seen you for a long time, Mosenberg, and I want you to tell me how you succeeded at the Conservatoire. If you like to walk with us for a bit, we can give you something to eat at seven.”

“That would be very pleasant for me,” said the boy, blushing somewhat, “if it does not incommode you, madame?”

“Oh, no; I hope you will come,” said Sheila, most heartily; and so they set out for a walk through Kensington Gardens, northward.

Precious little did Lavender learn about Leipsic during that walk. The boy devoted himself wholly to Sheila. He had heard frequently of her, and he knew of her coming from the wild and romantic Hebrides; and he began to tell her of all the experiments that composers had made in representing the sound of seas and storms, and winds howling through caverns washed by the waves. Lavender liked music well enough, and could himself play and sing a little, but this enthusiasm rather bored him. He wanted to know if the yellow wine was still as cool and clear as ever down in the twilight of Auerbach’s cellar, what burlesques had lately been played at the theatre, and whether such and such a beer-garden was still to the fore; whereas, he heard only analyses of overtures, and descriptions of the uses of particular musical instruments, and a wild rhapsody about moonlit seas, the sweetness of French horns, the King of Thule, and a dozen other matters.

“Mosenberg,” he said, “before you go calling on people you ought to visit an English tailor. People will think you belong to a German band.”

“I have been to a tailor,” said the lad, with a frank laugh. “My parents, madame, wish me to be quite English; that is why I am sent to live in London, while they are in Frankfort. I stay with some very good friends of mine, who are very musical, and they are not annoyed by my practising, as other people would be.”

“I hope you will sing something to us this evening,” said Sheila.

“I will sing and play for you all the evening,” he said, lightly, “until you are tired. But you must tell me when you are tired, for who can tell how much music will be enough? Sometimes two or three songs are more than enough to make people wish you away.”

“You need have no fear of tiring me,” said Sheila. “But when you are tired I will sing for you.”

“Yes, of course you sing, madame,” he said, casting down his eyes: “I knew that when I saw you.”

Sheila had got a sweetheart, and Lavender saw it and smiled good-naturedly. The awe and reverence with which this lad regarded the beautiful woman beside him, was something new and odd in Kensington Gardens. Yet it was the way of those boys. He had himself had his imaginative fits of worship, in which some very ordinary young woman, who ate a good breakfast and spent an hour and a half in arranging her hair before going out, was regarded as some beautiful goddess fresh risen from the sea, or descended from the clouds. Young Mosenberg was just at the proper age for these foolish dreams. He could sing songs to Sheila, and reveal to her in that way a passion of which he dared not otherwise speak. He would compose pieces of music for her, and dedicate them to her, and spend half his quarterly allowance in having them printed. He would grow to consider him, Lavender, a heartless brute, and cherish dark notions of poisoning him, but for the pain it might cause to her.

“I don’t remember whether you smoke, Mosenberg,” Lavender said, after dinner.

“Yes—a cigarette sometimes,” said the lad; “but if Mrs. Lavender is going away perhaps she will let me go into the drawing-room with her. There is that sonata of Muzio Clementi, madame, which I will try to remember for you if you please.”

“All right,” said Lavender; “you’ll find me in the next room on the left when you will get tired of your music and want a cigar. I think you used to beat me at chess, didn’t you?”

“I do not know. We will try once more to-night.”

Then Sheila and he went into the drawing-room by themselves, and while she took a seat near the brightly-lit fire-place, he opened the piano at once and sat down. He turned up his cuffs, he took a look at the pedals, he threw back his head, shaking his long brown hair; and then, with a crash like thunder, his two hands struck the keys. He had forgotten all about that sonata; it was a fantasia of his own, based on the airs in Der Freischutz, that he played; and as he played Sheila’s poor little piano suffered somewhat. Never before had it been so battered about, and she wished the small chamber were a great hall to temper the voluminous noise of this opening passage. But presently the music softened. The white, lithe fingers ran lightly over the keys, so that the notes seemed to ripple out like the prattling of a stream, and then again some stately and majestic air or some joyous burst of song would break upon this light accompaniment, and lead up to another roar and rumble of noise. It was a very fine performance, doubtless, but what Sheila remarked most was the enthusiasm of the lad. She was to see more of that.

“Now,” he said, “that is nothing. It is to get one’s fingers accustomed to the keys you play anything that is loud and rapid. But if you please, madame, shall I sing you something?”

“Yes, do,” said Sheila.

“I will sing for you a little German song which, I believe, Jenny Lind used to sing; but I never heard her sing. You know German?”

“Very little, indeed.”

“This is only the cry of some one who is far away about his sweetheart. It is very simple, both in the words and the music.”

And he began to sing, in a voice so rich, so tender and expressive that Sheila sat amazed and bewildered to hear him. Where had this boy caught such a trick of passion, or was it really a trick that threw into his voice all the pathos of a strong man’s love and grief? He had a powerful baritone, of unusual compass and rare sweetness; but it was not the finely-trained art of his singing, but the passionate abandonment of it, that thrilled Sheila, and, indeed, brought tears to her eyes. How had this mere lad learned all the yearning and despair of love that he sang?

as though his heart were breaking? When he had finished he paused for a moment or two before leaving the piano, and then he came over to where Sheila sat. She fancied there was a strange look in his face, as of one who had been really experiencing the wild emotions of which he sang; but he said, in his ordinary, careful way of speaking, “Madame, I am sorry I cannot translate the words for you into English. They are too simple; and they have, what is common in most German songs, a mingling of the pleasure and the sadness of being in love, that would not read natural perhaps in English. When he says to her that she is his greatest delight and also his greatest grief, it is quite right in the German, but not in the English.”

“But where have you learned all these things?” she said to him, talking to him as if he were a mere child, and looking without fear into his handsome boyish face and fine eyes. “Sit down and tell me. That is the song of some one whose sweetheart is far away, you said. But you sang it as if you yourself had some sweetheart far away.”

“So I have, madame,” he said, seriously: “when I sing the song, I think of her then, so that I almost cry for her.”

“And who is she?” said Sheila, gently. “Is she very far away?”

“I do not know,” said the lad, absently. “I do not know who she is. Sometimes I think she is a beautiful woman away at St. Petersburg, singing in the opera house there. Or I think she has sailed away in a ship from me.”

“But you do not sing about any particular person?” said Sheila, with an innocent wonder appearing in her eyes.

“Oh, no, not at all,” said the boy; and then he added, with some suddenness, “Do you think, madame, any fine songs like that, or any fine words that go to the heart of people are written about any one person? Oh, no! The man has a great desire in him to say something beautiful or sad, and he says it—not to one person, but to all the world; and all the world takes it from him as a gift. Sometimes, yes, he will think of one woman, or he will dedicate the music to her, or he will compose it for her wedding, but the feeling in his heart is greater than any that he has for her. Can you believe, madame, that Mendelssohn wrote the Hochzeitm—the Wedding March—for any one wedding? No. It was all the marriage joy of the world he put into his music, and every one knows that. And you hear it at this wedding, at that wedding, but you know it belongs to something far away and more beautiful than the marriage of any one bride with her sweetheart. And if you will pardon me, madame, speaking about myself, it is about some one I never knew, who is far more beautiful and precious to me than any one I ever knew, that I try to think when I sing these sad songs, and then I think of her far away, and not likely ever to see me again.”

“But some day you will find that you have met her in real life,” Sheila said. “And you will find her far more beautiful and kind to you than anything you dreamed about; and you will try to write your best music to give to her. And then, if you should be unhappy, you will find how much worse is the real unhappiness about one you love than the sentiment of a song you can lay aside at any moment.”

The lad looked at her. “What can you know about unhappiness, madame?” he said, with a frank and gentle simplicity that she liked.

“I,” said Sheila. “When people get married and begin to experience the cares of the world, they must expect to be unhappy sometimes.”

“But not you,” he said, with some touch of protest in his voice, as if it were impossible the world should deal harshly with so young and beautiful and tender a creature. “You can have nothing but enjoyment around you. Every one must try to please you. You need only condescend to speak to people, and they are grateful to you for a great favor. Perhaps, madame, you think I am impertinent?”

He stopped and blushed, while Sheila, herself with a little touch of color, answered him that she hoped he would always speak to her quite frankly, and then suggested that he might sing once more for her.

“Very well,” he said, as he sat down to the piano: “this is not any more a sad song. It is about a young lady who will not let her sweetheart kiss her, except on conditions. You shall hear the conditions, and what he says.”

Sheila began to wonder whether this innocent-eyed lad had been imposing on her. The song was acted as well as sung. It consisted chiefly of a dialogue between the two lovers; and the boy, with a wonderful ease and grace and skill, mimicked the shy coquetries of the girl, her fits of petulance and dictation, and the pathetic remonstrances of her companion, his humble entreaties and his final sullenness, which is only conquered by her sudden and ample consent. “What a rare faculty of artistic representation this precocious boy must have,” she thought, “if he really exhibits all those moods and whims and tricks of manner without having himself been in the position of the despairing and imploring lover!”

“You were not thinking of the beautiful lady in St. Petersburg when you were singing just now,” Sheila said, on his coming back to her.

“Oh, no,” he said, carelessly; “that is nothing. You have not to imagine anything. These people, you see them on every stage in the comedies and farces.”

“But that might happen in actual life,” said Sheila, still not quite sure about him. “Do you know that many people would think you must have yourself been teased in that way, or you could not imitate it so naturally?”

“I! Oh, no, madame,” he said, seriously; “I should not act that way if I were in love with a woman. If I found her a comedy-actress, liking to make her amusement out of our relations, I should say to her: ‘Good-evening, mademoiselle; we have both made a little mistake.’”

“But you might be so much in love with her that you could not leave her without being very miserable.”

“I might be very much in love with her, yes; but I would rather go away and be miserable than be humiliated by such a girl. Why do you smile, madame? Do you think I am vain, or that I am too young to know anything about that? Perhaps both are true, but one cannot help thinking.”

“Well,” said Sheila, with a grandly maternal air of sympathy and interest, “you must always remember this—that you have something more important to attend to than merely looking out for a beautiful sweetheart. That is the fancy of a foolish girl. You have your profession, and you must become great and famous in that; and then some day, when you meet this beautiful woman and ask her to be your wife, she will be bound to do that, and you will confer honor on her as well as secure happiness to yourself. Now, if you were to fall in love with some coquettish girl like her you were singing about, you would have no more ambition to become famous, you would lose all interest in everything except her, and she would be able to make you miserable by a single word. When you have made a name for yourself, and got a good many more years, you will be better able to bear anything that happens to you in your love or in your marriage.”

“You are very kind to take so much trouble,” said young Mosenberg, looking up with big, grateful eyes.

“Perhaps, madame, if you are not very busy during the day, you will let me call in sometimes, and if there is no one here I will tell you about what I am doing, and play for you or sing for you, if you please.”

“In the afternoons I am always free,” she said.

“Do you never go out?” he asked.

“Not often. My husband is at his studio most of the day.”

The boy looked at her, hesitated for a moment, and then said, with a sudden rush of color to his face, “You should not stay so much in the house. Will you sometimes go for a little walk with me, madame, to Kensington Gardens, if you are not busy in the afternoon?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Sheila, without a moment’s embarrassment. “Do you live near them?”

“No; I live in Sloane Street, but the underground railways brings me here in a very short time.”

That mention of Sloane Street gave a twinge to Sheila’s heart. Ought she have been so ready to accept offers of new friendship just as her old friend had been banished from her?

“In Sloane Street? Do you know Mr. Ingram?”

“Oh yes, very well. Do you?”

“He is one of my oldest friends,” said Sheila, bravely; she would not acknowledge that their intimacy was a thing of the past.

“He is a very good friend to me—I know that,” said young Mosenberg, with a laugh. “He hired a piano merely because I used to go into his rooms at night; and now he makes me play over my most difficult music when I go in, and he sits and smokes a pipe and pretends to like it. I do not think he does, but I have got to do it all the same, and then afterward I sing for him songs that I know he likes. Madame, I think I can surprise you.”

He went to the piano and began to sing, in a very quiet way:

It was the lament of the young girl whose lover had been separated from her by false reports, and who died before he could get back to Lochaber when the deception was discovered. And the wild, sad air the girl is supposed to sing seemed so strange with those new chords that this boy-musician gave it, that Sheila sat down and listened to it as though it were the sound of the seas about Borva coming to her with a new voice and finding her altered and a stranger.

“I know nearly all of those Highland songs that Mr. Ingram has got,” said the lad.

“I did not know that he had any,” Sheila said.

“Sometimes he tries to sing one himself,” said the boy, with a smile, “but he does not sing very well and he gets vexed with himself in fun, and flings things about the room. But you will sing some of these songs, madame, and let me hear how they are sung in the North?”

“Some time,” said Sheila, “I would rather listen just now to all you can tell me of Mr. Ingram—he is such a very old friend of mine, and I do not know how he lives.”

The lad speedily discovered that there was at least one way of keeping his new and beautiful friend profoundly interested; and, indeed, he went on talking until Lavender came into the room in evening dress. It was eleven o’clock, and young Mosenberg started up with a thousand apologies and hopes that he had not detained Mrs. Lavender. No, Mrs. Lavender was not going out; her husband was going around for an hour to a ball that Mrs. Kavanagh was giving, but she preferred to stay at home.

“May I call upon you to-morrow afternoon, madame?” said the boy, as he was leaving.

“I shall be very glad if you will,” Sheila answered.

And as he went along the pavement young Mosenberg observed to his companion that Mrs. Lavender did not seem to have gone out much, and that it was very good of her to have promised to go with him occasionally into Kensington Gardens.

“Oh, has she?” said Lavender.

“Yes,” said the lad, with some surprise.

“You are lucky to be able to get her to leave the house,” her husband said; “I can’t.”

Perhaps he had not tried so much as the words seemed to imply.

CHAPTER XVII.
GUESSES.

“MR. INGRAM,” cried young Mosenberg, bursting into the room of his friend, “do you know that I have seen your princess from the island of the Atlantic? Yes, I met her yesterday, and I went up to the house, and I dined there and spent all the evening there.”

Ingram was not surprised, nor, apparently, much interested. He was cutting open the leaves of a quarterly review, and a freshly-filled pipe lay on the table beside him. A fire had been lit, for the evenings were getting chill occasionally; the shutters were shut; there was some whiskey on the table; so that this small apartment seemed to have its share of bachelor’s comforts.

“Well,” said Ingram quietly, “did you play for her?”

“Yes.”

“And sing for her, too?”

“Yes.”

“Did you play and sing your very best for her?”

“Yes, I did. But I have not told you half yet. This afternoon I went up, and she went out for a walk with me; and we went down through Kensington Gardens, and all around by the Serpentine—”

“Did she go into that parade of people?” said Ingram, looking up with some surprise.

“No,” said the lad, looking rather crestfallen, for he would have liked to show off Sheila to some of his friends; “she would not go; she preferred to watch the small boats on the Serpentine, and she was very kind, too, in speaking to the children, and helping them with their boats, although some people stared at her. And what is more than all these things, to-morrow night she comes with me to a concert in the St. James’ Hall—yes.”

“You are very fortunate,” said Ingram, with a smile, for he was well pleased to hear that Sheila had taken a fancy to the boy, and was likely to find his society amusing. “But you have not told me yet what you think of her.”

“What I think of her?” said the lad, pausing in a bewildered way, as if he could find no words to express his opinion of Sheila. And then he said suddenly, “I think she is like the Mother of God.”

“You irreverent young rascal!” said Ingram, lighting his pipe, “how dare you say such a thing?

“I mean in the pictures—in the tall pictures you see in some churches abroad, far up in a half darkness. She has the same sweet, compassionate look, and her eyes are sometimes a little sad; and when she speaks to you, you think you have known her for a long time, and that she wishes to be very kind to you. But she is not a princess at all, as you told me. I expected to find her a grand, haughty, willful—yes: but she is much too friendly for that; and when she laughs you see she could not sweep about a room and stare at people. But if she was angry or proud, perhaps then—”

“See you don’t make her angry, then,” said Ingram. “Now go and play over all you were practicing in the morning. No? stop a bit. Sit down and tell me something more about your experiences of Shei—of Mrs. Lavender.”

Young Mosenberg laughed, and sat down; “Do you know, Mr. Ingram, that the same thing occurred the night before last? I was about to sing some more, or I was asking Mrs. Lavender to sing some more—I forget which—but she said to me, ‘Not just now. I wish you to sit down and tell me all you know about Mr. Ingram.’”

“And she no sooner honors you with her confidence than you carry it to every one?” said Ingram, somewhat fearful of the boy’s tongue.

“Oh, as to that,” said the lad, delighted to see that his friend was a little embarrassed; “as to that, I believe she is in love with you.”

“Mosenberg,” said Ingram with a flash of anger in the dark eyes, “if you were half a dozen years older I would thrash the life out of you. Do you think that is a pretty sort of joke to make about a woman? Don’t you know the mischief your gabbling tongue might make? for how is every one to know that you are talking merely impertinent nonsense?”

“Oh,” said the boy, audaciously, “I did not mean anything of the kind you see in comedies or in operas, breaking up marriages and causing duels. Oh, no. I think she is in love with you, as I am in love with her; and I am, ever since yesterday.”

“Well, I will say this for you,” remarked Ingram, slowly, “that you are the cheekiest young beggar I have the pleasure to know. You are in love with her, are you? A lady admits you to her house, is particularly kind to you, talks to you in confidence, and then you go and tell people you are in love with her!”

“I did not tell people,” said Mosenberg, flushing under the severity of the reproof; “I told you only, and I thought you would understand what I meant. I should have told Lavender himself just as soon—yes; only he would not care.”

“How do you know?”

“Bah!” said the boy, impatiently. “Cannot one see it? You have a pretty wife—much prettier than any one you would see at a ball at Mrs. Kavanagh’s—and you leave her at home, and you go to the ball to amuse yourself.”

This boy, Ingram perceived, was getting to see too clearly how matters stood. He bade him go and play some music, having first admonished him gravely about the necessity of keeping some watch and ward over his tongue. Then the pipe was re-lit, and a fury of sound arose at the other end of the room.

So Lavender, forgetful of the true-hearted girl who loved him, forgetful of his own generous instincts, forgetful of the future that his fine abilities promised, was still dangling after this alien woman, and Sheila was left at home, with her troubles and piteous yearnings and fancies as her only companions? Once upon a time Ingram could have gone straight up to him and admonished him, and driven him to mend his ways. But now that was impossible.

What was still possible? One wild project occurred to him for a moment, but he laughed at it and dismissed it. It was that he should go boldly to Mrs. Lorraine herself, ask her plainly if she knew what cruel injury she was doing to this young wife, and force her to turn Lavender adrift. But what enterprise of the days of old romance could be compared with this mad proposal? To ride up to a castle, blow a trumpet, and announce that unless a certain lady were released forthwith, death and destruction would begin—all that was simple enough, easy and according to rule; but to go into a lady’s drawing-room without an introduction, and request her to stop a certain flirtation—that was a much more awful undertaking. But Ingram could not altogether dismiss this notion from his head. Mosenberg went on playing—no longer his practising-pieces, but all manner of airs which he knew Ingram liked—while the small, sallow man with the brown beard lay in his easy-chair and smoked his pipe, and gazed attentively at his toes on the fender.

“You know Mrs. Kavanagh and her daughter, don’t you, Mosenberg?” he said, during an interval in the music.

“Not much,” said the boy. “They were in England only a little while before I went to Leipsic.”

“I should like to know them.”

“That is very easy. Mr. Lavender will introduce you to them. Mrs. Lavender said he went there very much.”

“What would they do, do you think, if I went up and asked to see them?”

“The servant would ask if it was about beer or coals that you called.”

A man will do much for a woman who is his friend, but to be suspected of being a brewer’s traveler, to have to push one’s way into a strange drawing-room, to have to confront the awful stare of the inmates, and then to have to deliver a message which they will probably consider as the very extreme of audacious and meddling impertinence! The prospect was not pleasant, and yet Ingram, as he sat and thought over it that evening, finally resolved to encounter all these dangers and wounds. He could help Sheila in no other way. He was banished from her house. Perhaps he might induce this American girl to release her captive, and give Lavender back to his own wife. What were a few twinges of one’s self-respect, or risks of a humiliating failure, compared with the possibility of befriending Sheila in some small way?

Next morning he went early into Whitehall, and about one o’clock in the forenoon started off for Holland Park. He wore a tall hat, a black frock-coat and yellow kid gloves. He went in a hansom, so that the person who opened the door should know that he was not a brewer’s traveler. In this wise he reached Mrs. Kavanagh’s house, which Lavender had frequently pointed out to him in passing, about half-past one, and with some internal tremors, but much outward calmness, went up the broad stone steps.

A small boy in buttons opened the door.

“Is Mrs. Lorraine at home?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy.

It was the simplest thing in the world. In a few seconds he found himself in a big drawing-room, and the youth had taken his card up-stairs. Ingram was not very sure whether his success, so far, was due to the hansom, or to his tall hat, or to a silver-headed cane which his grandfather had brought home from India. However, here he was in the house, just like the hero of one of those fine old farces of our youth, who jumps from the street into a strange drawing-room, flirts with the maid, hides behind a screen, confronts the master, and marries his daughter, all in half an hour, the most exacting unities of time and place being faithfully observed.

Presently the door was opened, and a young lady, pale and calm and sweet of face, approached him, and not only bowed to him, but held out her hand.

“I have much pleasure in making your acquaintance, Mr. Ingram,” she said, gently and somewhat slowly. “Mr. Lavender has frequently promised to bring you to see us, for he has spoken to us so much about you that we begun to think we already knew you. Will you come with me up stairs, that I may introduce you to mamma?”

Ingram had come prepared to state harsh truths bluntly, and was ready to meet any sort of anger or opposition with a perfect frankness of intention. But he certainly had not come prepared to find the smart-tongued and fascinating American widow, of whom he had heard so much, a quiet, self possessed and gracious young lady, of singularly winning manners, and clear and resolutely honest eyes. Had Lavender been quite accurate, or even conscientious in his garrulous talk about Mrs. Lorraine?

“If you will excuse me,” said Ingram, with a smile that had less of embarrassment about it than he could have expected, “I would rather speak to you for a few minutes first. The fact is, I have come on a self-imposed errand; and that must be my apology for—for thrusting myself—”

“I am sure no apology is needed,” said the girl. “We have always been expecting to see you. Will you sit down?”

He put his hat and his cane on the table, and as he did so he recorded a mental resolution not to be led away by the apparent innocence and sweetness of this woman. What a fool he had been to expect her to appear in the guise of some forward and giggling coquette, as if Frank Lavender, with all his faults, could have suffered anything like coarseness of manners! But was this woman any the less dangerous that she was refined and courteous, and had the speech and bearing of a gentlewoman?

“Mrs. Lorraine,” he said, lowering his eyebrows somewhat, “I may as well be frank with you. I have come upon an unpleasant errand—an affair, indeed, which ought to be no business of mine; but sometimes, when you care a little for some one, you don’t mind running the risk of being treated as an intermeddler. You know that I know Mrs. Lavender. She is an old friend of mine. She was almost a child when I knew her first, and I still have a sort of notion that she is a child, and that I should look after her, and so—and so—”

She sat quite still. There was no surprise, no alarm, no anger when Sheila’s name was mentioned. She was merely attentive, but now seeing that he hesitated, she said, “I do not know what you have to say, but if it is serious, may not I ask mamma to join us?”

“If you please, no. I would rather speak with you alone, as this matter concerns yourself only. Well, the fact is, I have seen for some time back that Mrs. Lavender is very unhappy. She is left alone; she knows no one in London; perhaps she does not care to join much in those social amusements that her husband enjoys. I say this poor girl is an old friend of mine; I cannot help trying to do something to make her less wretched; and so I have ventured to come to you to see if you could assist me. Mr. Lavender comes very much to your house, and Sheila is left all by herself; and doubtless she begins to fancy that her husband is neglectful, perhaps indifferent to her, and may get to imagine things that are quite wrong, you know, and that could be explained away by a little kindness on your part.”

Was this, then, the fashion in which Jonah had gone up to curse the wickedness of Nineveh? As he had spoken he had been aware that those sincere, somewhat matter-of-fact and far from unfriendly eyes that were fixed on him, had undergone no change whatever. Here was no vile creature who would start up with a guilty conscience to repel the remotest hint of an accusation; and indeed, quite unconsciously to himself, he had been led on to ask for her help. Not that he feared her. Not but that he could have said the harshest things to her which there was any reason for saying. But somehow there seemed to be no occasion for the utterance of any cruel truths.

The wonder of it was, too, that instead of being wounded, indignant and angry, as he had expected her to be, she betrayed a very friendly interest in Sheila, as though she herself had nothing whatever to do with the matter.

“You have undertaken a very difficult task, Mr. Ingram,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think there are many married ladies in London who have a friend who would do as much for them. And, to tell you the truth, both my mamma and myself have come to the same conclusion as yourself about Mr. Lavender. It is really too bad, the way in which he allows that pretty young thing to remain at home, for I suppose she would go more into society if he were to coax her and persuade her. We have done what we could in sending her invitations, in calling on her, and in begging Mr. Lavender to bring her with him. But he has always some excuse for her, so that we never see her. And yet I am sure he does not mean to give her pain; for he is very proud of her, and madly extravagant wherever she is concerned; and sometimes he takes sudden fits of trying to please her and be kind to her that are quite odd in their way. Can you tell me what we should do?”

Ingram looked at her for a moment, and said gravely and slowly, “Before we talk anymore about that I must clear my conscience. I perceive that I have done you a wrong. I came here prepared to accuse you of drawing away Mr. Lavender from his wife, of seeking amusement and perhaps some social distinction, by keeping him continually dangling after you; and I meant to reproach you, or even threaten you, until you promised never to see him again.”

A quick flush, partly of shame, partly of annoyance, sprang to Mrs. Lorraine’s fair and pale face; but she answered calmly, “It is perhaps as well that you did not tell me this a few minutes ago. May I ask what has led you to change your opinion of me, if it has changed?”

“Of course it has changed,” he said, promptly and emphatically. “I can see that I did you a great injury, and I apologize for it, and beg your forgiveness. But when you ask me what has led me to change my opinion, what am I to say? Your manner, perhaps, more than what you have said has convinced me that I was wrong.”

“Perhaps you are again mistaken,” she said coldly; “you get rapidly to conclusions.”

“The reproof is just,” he said. “You are quite right. I have made a blunder; there is no mistake about it.”

“But do you think it was fair,” she said with some spirit—“do you think it was fair to believe all this harm about a woman you had never seen? Now, listen. A hundred times I have begged Mr. Lavender to be more attentive to his wife—not in these words, of course, but as directly as I could. Mamma has given parties, made arrangements for visits, drives and all sorts of things, to tempt Mrs. Lavender to come to us, and all in vain. Of course you can’t thrust yourself on any one like that. Though mamma and myself like Mrs. Lavender very well, it is asking too much that we should encounter the humiliation of intermeddling.”

Here she stopped suddenly, with the least show of embarrassment. Then she said, frankly, “You are an old friend of hers. It is very good of you to have risked so much for the sake of that girl. There are very few gentlemen whom one meets who would do as much.”

Ingram could say nothing, and was a little impatient with himself. Was he to be first reproved, and then treated with an indulgent kindness by a mere girl?

“Mamma,” said Mrs. Lorraine, as an elderly lady entered the room, “let me introduce you to Mr. Ingram, whom you must already know. He proposes we should join in some conspiracy to inveigle Mrs. Lavender into society, and make the poor little thing amuse herself.”

“Little!” said Mrs. Kavanagh, with a smile; “she is a good deal taller than you are, my dear. But I am afraid, Mr. Ingram, you have undertaken a hopeless task. Will you stay to luncheon and talk it over with us?”

“I hope you will,” said Mrs. Lorraine; and naturally enough he consented.

Luncheon was just ready. As they were going into the room on the opposite side of the hall, the younger lady said to Ingram in a quiet undertone, but with much indifference of manner, “You know, if you think I ought to give up Mr. Lavender’s acquaintance altogether, I will do so at once. But perhaps that will not be necessary.”

So this was the house in which Sheila’s husband spent so much of his time, and these were the two ladies of whom so much had been said and surmised? There were three of Lavender’s pictures on the walls of the dining-room, and as Ingram inadvertently glanced at them, Mrs. Lorraine said to him, “Don’t you think it is a pity Mr. Lavender should continue drawing those imaginative sketches of heads? I do not think, myself, that he does himself justice in that way. Some bits of landscape, now, that I have seen, seemed to me to have quite a definite character about them, and promised far more than anything else of his I have seen.”

“That is precisely what I think,” said Ingram, partly amused and partly annoyed to find that this girl, with her clear gray eyes, her soft and musical voice, and her singular delicacy of manner, had an evil trick of saying the very things he would himself have said, and leaving him with nothing but a helpless “Yes.”

“I think he ought to have given up his club when he married. Most English gentlemen do that when they marry, do they not?” said Mrs. Kavanagh.

“Some,” said Ingram. “But a good deal of nonsense is talked about the influence of clubs in that way. It is really absurd to suppose that the size or the shape of a building can alter a man’s moral character.”

“It does, though,” said Mrs. Lorraine confidently. “I can tell directly if a gentleman has been accustomed to spend his time in clubs. When he is surprised or angry or impatient, you can perceive blanks in his conversation which in a club, I suppose, would be filled up. Don’t you know poor old Colonel Hannen’s way of talking, mamma? This old gentleman, Mr. Ingram, is very fond of speaking to you about political liberty and the rights of conscience; and he generally becomes so confused that he gets vexed with himself, and makes odd pauses, as if he were invariably addressing himself in very rude language indeed. Sometimes you would think he was like a railway engine, going blindly and helplessly on through a thick and choking mist; and you can see that if there were no ladies present he would let off a few crackers—fog-signals, as it were—just to bring himself up a bit, and let people know where he was. Then he will go on again, talking away until you fancy yourself in a tunnel, with a throbbing noise in your ears and all the daylight shut out, and you perhaps getting to wish that on the whole you were dead.”

“Cecilia!”

“I beg your pardon, mamma,” said the younger lady, with a quiet smile; “you look so surprised that Mr. Ingram will give me credit for not often erring in that way. You look as though a hare had turned and attacked you.”

“That would give most people a fright,” said Ingram, with a laugh. He was rapidly forgetting the object of his mission. The almost childish softness of voice of this girl, and the perfect composure with which she uttered little sayings that showed considerable sharpness of observation and a keen enjoyment of the grotesque, had an odd sort of fascination for him. He totally forgot that Lavender had been fascinated by it, too. If he had been reminded of the fact at this moment, he would have said that the boy had, as usual, got sentimental about a pretty pair of big gray eyes and a fine profile, while he, Ingram, was possessed by nothing but a purely intellectual admiration of certain fine qualities of wit, sincerity of speech and womanly shrewdness.

Luncheon, indeed, was over before any mention was made of the Lavenders; and when they returned to that subject it appeared to Ingram that their relations had in the meantime got to be very friendly, and that they were really discussing this matter as if they formed a little family conclave.

“I have told Mr. Ingram, mamma,” Mrs. Lorraine said, “that so far as I am concerned I will do whatever he thinks I ought to do. Mr. Lavender has been a friend of ours for some time, and of course he cannot be treated with rudeness or incivility; but if we are wounding the feelings of any one by asking him to come here—and he certainly visited us pretty often—why, it would be easy to lessen the number of his calls. Is that what we should do, Mr. Ingram? You would not have us quarrel with him?”

“Especially,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, with a smile, “that there is no certainty he will spend more of his time with his wife merely because he spends less of it here. And yet I fancy he is a very good-natured man.”

“He is very good-natured,” said Ingram, with decision. “I have known him for years, and I know that he is exceedingly unselfish, and that he would do a ridiculously generous thing to serve a friend, and that a better-intentioned fellow does not breathe in the world. But he is at times, I admit, very thoughtless and inconsiderate.”

“That sort of good-nature,” said Mrs. Lorraine, in her gentlest voice, “is very good in its way, but rather uncertain. So long as it shines in one direction, it is all right and quite trustworthy, for you want a hard brush to brush sunlight off a wall. But when the sunlight shifts you know—”

“The wall is left in the cold. Well,” said Ingram, “I am afraid it is impossible for me to dictate to you what you ought to do. I do not wish to draw you into any interference between husband and wife, or even to let Mr. Lavender know that you think he is not treating Shei—Mrs. Lavender—properly. But if you were to hint to him that he ought to pay some attention to her—that he should not be going everywhere as if he were a young bachelor in chambers; if you would discourage his coming to see you without bringing her also, and so forth—surely he would see what you mean. Perhaps I ask too much of you, but I had intended to ask more. The fact is, Mrs. Kavanagh, I had done your daughter the injustice of supposing—”

“I thought we had agreed to say no more about that,” said Mrs. Lorraine, quickly, and Ingram was silent.

Half an hour thereafter he was walking back though Holland Park, through the warm light of an autumn afternoon. The place seemed much changed since he had seen it a couple of hours before. The double curve of big houses had a more friendly and hospitable look; the very air seemed to be more genial and comfortable since he had driven up here in the hansom.

Perhaps Mr. Ingram was at this moment a little more perturbed, pleased and bewildered than he would have liked to confess. He had discovered a great deal in these two hours, been much surprised and fascinated, and had come away fairly stupefied with the result of his mission. He had indeed been successful; Lavender would now find a different welcome awaiting him in the house in which he had been spending nearly all his time, to the neglect of his wife. But the fact is, that as Edward Ingram went rapidly over in his own mind everything that had occurred since his entrance into that house, as he anxiously recalled the remarks made to him, the tone and looks accompanying them, and his own replies, it was not of Lavender’s affairs alone that he thought. He confessed to himself frankly that he had never yet met any woman who had so surprised him into admiration on their first meeting.

Yet what had she said? Nothing very particular. Was it the bright intelligence of the gray eyes, that seemed to see everything he meant with an instant quickness, and that seemed to agree with him even before he spoke? He reflected, now that he was in the open air, that he must have persecuted these two women dreadfully. In getting away from Lavender’s affairs they had touched on pictures, books, and what not—on the young poet who was playing Alfred de Musset in England; on the great philosopher who had gone into the House to confuse and bewilder the country gentlemen there; on all sorts of topics, indeed, except those which, as Ingram had anticipated, such a creature as Mrs. Lorraine would naturally have found interesting. And he had to confess to himself that he had lectured his two helpless victims most unmercifully. He was quite conscious that he sometimes laid down the law in an authoritative and even sententious manner. On first going into the house certain things said by Mrs. Lorraine had almost surprised him into a mood of mere acquiescence; but after luncheon he had assumed his ordinary manner of tutor in general to the universe, and had informed these two women, in a distinct fashion, what their opinions ought to be on half the social conundrums of the day.

He now reflected, with much compunction, that this was highly improper. He ought to have asked about flower-shows, and inquired whether the Princess of Wales was looking well of late. Some reference to the late Parisian comedy might have introduced a disquisition on the new grays and greens of the French milliners, with a passing mention made of the price paid for a pair of ponies by a certain marquise unattached. He had not spoken of one of these things; perhaps he could not if he had tried. He remembered, with an awful consciousness of guilt, that he had actually discoursed of woman suffrage, of the public conscience of New York, of the extirpation of the Indians, and a dozen different things not only taking no heed of any opinions that his audience of two might hold, but insisting on their accepting his opinions as the expression of absolute and incontrovertible truth.

He became more and more dissatisfied with himself. If he could only go back now, he would be much more wary, more submissive and complaisant, more anxious to please. What right had he to abuse the courtesy and hospitality of those two strangers, and lecture them on the Constitution of their own country? He was annoyed beyond expression that they had listened to him with so much patience.

And yet he could not have seriously offended them for they had earnestly besought him to dine with them on the following Tuesday evening to meet an American judge; and when he had consented, Mrs. Lorraine had written down on a card the date and hour, lest he should forget. He had the card in his pocket; surely he could not have offended them? If he had pursued this series of questions, he might have gone on to ask himself why he should be so anxious not to have offended these two new friends. He was not ordinarily very sensitive to the opinions that might be formed of him—more especially by persons living out of his own sphere, with whom he was not likely to associate. He did not, indeed, as a general rule, suffer himself to be perturbed about anything; and yet, as he went along the busy thoroughfare at this moment, he was conscious that rarely in his life had he been so ill at ease.

Something now occurred that startled him out of his reverie. Communing with himself, he was staring blankly ahead, taking little note of the people whom he saw. But somehow, in a vague and dream-like way, he seemed to become aware that there was some one in front of him—a long way ahead as yet—whom he knew. He was still thinking of Mrs. Lorraine, and unconsciously postponing the examination of this approaching figure, or rather pair of figures, when, with a sudden start, he found Sheila’s sad and earnest eyes fixed upon him. He woke up as from a dream. He saw that young Mosenberg was with her, and naturally the boy would have approached Ingram, and stopped and spoken. But Ingram paid no attention to him. He was, with a quick pang at his heart, regarding Sheila, with the knowledge that on her rested the cruel decision as to whether she should come forward or not. He was not aware that her husband had forbidden her to have any communication with him; yet he had guessed as much, partly from his knowledge of Lavender’s impatient disposition, and partly from the glance he caught of her eyes when he woke up from his trance.

Young Mosenberg turned with surprise to his companion. She was passing on; he did not even see that she had bowed to Ingram, with a face flushed with shame and pain, and with eyes cast down. Ingram, too, was passing on, without even shaking hands with her or uttering a word. Mosenberg was too bewildered to attempt any protest; he merely followed Sheila, with a conviction that something desperate had occurred, and that he would best consult her feelings by making no reference to it.

But that one look that the girl had directed to her old friend before she bowed and passed on had filled him with despair. It was somehow like the piteous look of a wounded animal, incapable of expressing its pain. All thoughts and fancies of his own little vexations or embarrassments were instantly banished from him: he could only see before him those sad and piteous eyes, full of kindness to him, he thought, and of grief that she should be debarred from speaking to him, and of resignation to her own lot.

Gwdyr House did not get much work out of him that day. He sat in a small room in a back part of the building, looking out on a lonely little square, silent and ruddy with the reflected light of the sunset.

“A hundred Mrs. Kavanaghs,” he was thinking to himself bitterly enough, “will not save my poor Sheila. She will die of a broken heart. I can see it in her face. And it is I who have done it—from first to last it is I who have done it; and now I can do nothing to help her.”

That became the burden and refrain of all his reflections. It was he who had done this frightful thing. It was he who had taken away the young Highland girl, his good Sheila, from her home, and ruined her life and broken her heart. And he could do nothing to help her.

CHAPTER XVIII.
SHEILA’S STRATAGEM.

“WE met Mr. Ingram to-day,” said young Mosenberg, ingeniously.

He was dining with Lavender, not at home, but at a club in St. James’ street; and either his curiosity was too great, or he had forgotten altogether Ingram’s warnings to him that he should hold his tongue.

“Oh, did you?” said Lavender, showing no great interest. “Waiter, some French mustard. What did Ingram say to you?”

The question was asked with much apparent indifference, and the boy stared. “Well,” he said at length, “I suppose there is some misunderstanding between Mrs. Lavender and Mr. Ingram, for they both saw each other, and they both passed on without speaking. I was very sorry—yes. I thought they were friends—I thought Mr. Ingram knew Mrs. Lavender even before you did; but they did not speak to each other, not one word.”

Lavender was in one sense pleased to hear this. He liked to hear that his wife was obedient to him. But, he said to himself with a sharp twinge of conscience, she was carrying her obedience too far. He had never meant that she should not even speak to her old friend. He would talk to her about it as soon as he got home, and in as kindly a way as was possible.

Mosenberg did not play billiards, but they remained late in the billiard-room, Lavender playing pool and getting out of it rather successfully. He could not speak to Sheila that night, but next morning, before going out, he did.

“Sheila,” he said, “Mosenberg told me last night that you met Mr. Ingram and did not speak to him. Now, I didn’t mean anything like that. You must not think me unreasonable. All I want is that he shall not interfere with our affairs and try to raise some unpleasantness between you and me, such as might arise from the interference of even the kindest of friends. When you meet him outside or at any one’s house, I hope you will treat him just as usual.”

Sheila replied calmly, “If I am not allowed to receive Mr. Ingram here, I cannot treat him as a friend elsewhere. I would rather not have friends whom I can only speak to in the streets.”

“Very well,” said Lavender, wincing under the rebuke, but fancying that she would soon repent her of this resolve. In the meantime, if she would have it so, she would have it so.

So that was an end of this question of Mr. Ingram’s interference for the present. But very soon—in a couple of days, indeed—Lavender perceived the change that had been wrought in the house in Holland Park to which he had been accustomed to resort.

“Cecelia,” Mrs. Kavanagh had said on Ingram’s leaving, “you must not be rude to Mr. Lavender.” She knew the perfect independence of that gentle young lady, and was rather afraid it might carry her too far.

“Of course I shall not be, mamma,” Mrs. Lorraine had said. “Did you ever hear of such a courageous act as that man coming up to two strangers and challenging them, all on account of a girl married to some one else? You know that was the object of his visit. He thought I was flirting with Mr. Lavender and keeping him from his wife. I wonder how many men there are in London who would have walked twenty yards to help in such a matter?”

“My dear, he may have been in love with that pretty young lady before she was married.”

“Oh, no,” said the clear-eyed daughter, quietly but quite confidently. “He would not be so ready to show his interest in her if that were so. Either he would be modest, and ashamed of his rejection, or vain, and attempt to make a mystery about it.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said the mother. She seldom found her daughter wrong on such points.

“I am sure I am right, mamma. He talks about her as fondly and frequently and openly as a man might talk about his own daughter. Besides, you can see that he is talking honestly. The man couldn’t deceive a child if he were to try. You see everything in his face.”

“You seem to have been much interested in him,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, with no appearance of sarcasm.

“Well, I don’t think I meet such men often, and that is the truth. Do you?” This was carrying the war into the enemy’s country.

“I like him very well,” raid Mrs. Kavanagh. “I think he is honest. I do not think he dresses very carefully; and he is perhaps too intent on convincing you that his opinions are right.”

“Well, for my part,” said her daughter, with just the least tinge of warmth in her manner, “I confess I like a man who has opinions, and is not afraid to say so. I don’t find many who have. And for his dressing, one gets rather tired of men who come to you every evening to impress you with the excellence of their tailor. As if women were to be captured by millinery! Don’t we know the value of linen and woolen fabrics?”

“My dear child, you are throwing away your vexation on some one whom I don’t know. It isn’t Mr. Lavender?”

“Oh, dear, no! He is not so silly as that; he dresses well, but there is perfect freedom about his dress. He is too much of an artist to sacrifice himself to his clothes.”

“I am glad you have a good word for him at last. I think you have been rather hard on him since Mr. Ingram called; and that is the reason I asked you to be careful.”

She was quite careful, but as explicit as good manners would allow. Mrs. Lorraine was most particular in asking about Mrs. Lavender, and in expressing her regret that they so seldom saw her.

“She has been brought up in the country, you know,” said Lavender with a smile; “and there the daughters of a house are taught a number of domestic duties that they would consider it a sin to neglect. She would be unhappy if you caused her to neglect them; she would take her pleasure with a bad conscience.”

“But she cannot be occupied with them all day.”

“My dear Mrs. Lorraine, how often have we discussed the question! And you know you have me at a disadvantage, for how can I describe to you what those mysterious duties are? I only know that she is pretty nearly always busy with something or other; and in the evening, of course, she is generally too tired to think of going out anywhere.”

“Oh, but you must try to get her out. Next Tuesday, now, Judge —— is going to dine with us, and you know how amusing he is. If you have no other engagement, couldn’t you bring Mrs. Lavender to dine with us on that evening?”

Now, on former occasions something of the same sort of invitation had frequently been given, and it was generally answered by Lavender giving an excuse for his wife, and promising to come himself. What was his astonishment to find Mrs. Lorraine plainly and most courteously intimating that the invitation was addressed distinctly to Mr. and Mrs. Lavender as a couple! When he regretted that Mrs. Lavender could not come, she said quietly, “Oh, I am so sorry! You would have met an old friend of yours here, as well as the judge—Mr. Ingram.”

Lavender made no further sign of surprise or curiosity than to lift his eyebrows and say, “Indeed!”

But when he left the house certain dark suspicions were troubling his mind. Nothing had been said as to the manner in which Ingram had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Kavanagh and her daughter, but there was that in Mrs. Lorraine’s manner which convinced Lavender that something had happened. Had Ingram carried his interference to the extent of complaining to them? Had he overcome a repugnance which he had repeatedly admitted, and thrust himself upon these two people for this very purpose of making him, Lavender, odious and contemptible? Lavender’s cheeks burned as he thought of this possibility. Mrs. Lorraine had been most courteous to him, but the longer he dwelt on these vague surmises the deeper grew his consciousness that he had been turned out of the place, morally if not physically. What was that excess of courtesy but a cloak? If she had meant less, she would have been more careless; and all through the interview he had remarked that, instead of the free warfare of talk that generally went on between them, Mrs. Lorraine was most formally polite and apparently watchful of her words.

He went home in a passion, which was all the more consuming that it could not be vented on any one. As Sheila had not spoken to Ingram—as she had even nerved herself to wound him by passing him without notice in the street—she could not be held responsible; and yet he wished that he could have upbraided some one for this mischief that had been done. Should he go straight down to Ingram’s lodgings and have it out with him? At first he was strongly inclined to do so, but wiser counsels prevailed. Ingram had a keen and ready tongue, and a way of saying things that made them rankle afterward in the memory. Besides, he would go into court with a defective case. He could say nothing unless Ingram admitted that he had tried to poison the mind of Mrs. Lorraine against him; and, of course, if there was a quarrel, who would be so foolish as to make such an admission? Ingram would laugh at him, would refuse to admit or deny, would increase his anger without affording him an opportunity of revenging himself.

Sheila could see that her husband was troubled, but could not divine the cause, and had long ago given up any habit of inquiry. He ate his dinner almost in silence, and then said he had to make a call on a friend, and that he would perhaps drop in to the club on his way home, so that she was not to sit up for him. She was not surprised or hurt at the announcement. She was accustomed to spend her evenings alone. She fetched down his cigar-case, put it in his top-coat pocket, and brought him the coat. Then he kissed her and went out.

But this evening, at least, she had abundant occupation, and that of a sufficiently pleasant kind. For some little time she had been harboring in her mind a dark and mysterious plot, and she was glad of an opportunity to think it out and arrange its details. Mairi was coming to London, and she had carefully concealed the fact from her husband. A little surprise of a dramatic sort was to be prepared for him—with what result who could tell? All of a sudden Lavender was to be precipitated into the island of Lewis as nearly as that could be imitated in a house at Notting Hill.

This was Sheila’s scheme, and on these lonely evenings she could sit by herself with much satisfaction and ponder over the little points of it and its possible success. Mairi was coming to London under the escort of a worthy Glasgow fishmonger whom Mr. Mackenzie knew. She would arrive after Lavender had left for his studio. Then she and Sheila would set to work to transform the smoking-room, that was sometimes called a library, into something resembling the quaint little drawing-room in Sheila’s home. Mairi was bringing up a quantity of heather gathered fresh from the rocks beside the White Water; she was bringing up some peacocks’ feathers, too, for the mantle-piece, and two or three big shells; and, best of all, she was to put in her trunk a real and veritable lump of peat, well dried and easy to light. Then you must know that Sheila had already sketched out the meal that was to be placed on the table so soon as the room had been done up in Highland fashion and this peat lit so as to send its fragrant smoke abroad. A large salmon was to make its appearance first of all. There would be bottles of beer on the table; also one of those odd bottles of Norwegian make filled with whisky. And when Lavender went with wonder into the small room, when he smelt the fragrant peat smoke—and every one knows how powerful the sense of smell is in recalling by-gone associations—when he saw the smoking salmon and the bottled beer and the whisky, and when he suddenly found Mairi coming into the room and saying to him in her sweet Highland fashion, “And are you ferry well, sir?”—would not his heart warm to the old ways and kindly homeliness of the house in Borva, and would not some glimpse of the happy and half-forgotten time that was now so sadly and strangely remote, cause him to break down that barrier between himself and Sheila that this artificial life in the South had placed there?

So the child dreamed, and was happy in dreaming of it. Sometimes she grew afraid of her project: she had not had much experience in deception, and the mere concealment of Mairi’s coming was a hard thing to bear. But surely her husband would take this trick in good part. It was only, after all, a joke. To put a little barbaric splendor of decoration into the little smoking-room, to have a scent of peat-smoke in the air, and to have a timid, sweet-voiced, pretty Highland girl suddenly make her appearance, with an odor of the sea about her, as it were, and a look of fresh breezes in the color of her cheeks—what mortal man could find fault with this innocent jest? Sheila’s moments of doubt were succeeded by long hours of joyous confidence, in which a happy light shone on her face. She went through the house with a brisk step; she sang to herself as she went; she was kinder than ever to the small children who came into the square every forenoon, and whose acquaintance she had very speedily made; she gave each of her crossing-sweepers threepence instead of twopence in passing. The servants had never seen her in such good spirits; she was exceptionally generous in presenting them with articles of attire; they might have had half the week in holidays, if Mr. Lavender had not to be attended to. A small gentleman of three years of age lived next door, and his acquaintance also she had made, by means of his nurse. At this time his stock of toys, which Sheila had kept carefully renewed, became so big that he might, with proper management, have set up a stall in the Lowther Arcade.

Just before she left Lewis her father had called her to him and said: “Sheila, I wass wanting to tell you about something. It is not every one that will care to hef his money given away to poor folk, and it wass many a time I said to myself that when you were married maybe your husband would think you were giving too much money to the poor folk, as you wass doing in Borva. And it iss this fifty pounds I hef got for you, Sheila, in ten bank notes, and you will take them with you for your own money, that you will not hef any trouble about giving things to people. And when the fifty pounds will be gone, I will send you another fifty pounds; and it will be no difference to me whatever. And if there is any one in Borva you would be for sending money to, there is your own money; for there is many a one would take the money from Sheila Mackenzie that would not be for taking it from an English stranger in London. And when you will send it to them, you will send it to me; and I will tek it to them, and will tell them that this money is from my Sheila, and from no one else whatever.”

This was all the dowry that Sheila carried with her to the South. Mackenzie would willingly have given her half his money, if she would have taken it, or if her husband had desired it; but the old King of Borva had profound and far-reaching schemes in his head about the small fortune he might otherwise have accorded to his daughter. This wealth, such as it was, was to be a magnet to draw this young English gentleman back to the Hebrides. It was all very well for Mr. Lavender to have plenty of money at present: he might not always have it. Then the time would come for Mackenzie to say, “Look here, young man: I can support myself easily and comfortably by farming and fishing. The money I have is at your disposal so long as you consent to remain in Lewis—in Stornoway, if you please; elsewhere, if you please—only in Lewis. And while you are painting pictures, and making as much money as you can that way, you can have plenty of fishing and shooting and amusement; and my guns and boats and rods are all at your service.” Mr. Mackenzie considered that no man could resist such an offer.

Sheila, of course, told her husband of the sum of money she owned, and for a long time it was a standing joke between them. He addressed her with much respect, and was careful to inform her of the fluctuations of the money-market. Sometimes he borrowed a sovereign of her, and never without giving her an I O U, which was faithfully reclaimed. But by and by she perceived that he grew less and less to like the mention of this money. Perhaps it resembled too closely the savings which the over-cautious folks about Borvapost would not entrust to a bank, but kept hid about their huts in the heel of a stocking. At all events, Sheila saw that her husband did not like her to go to this fund for her charities; and so the fifty pounds that her father had given her had lasted a long time. During this period of jubilation, in which she looked forward to touching her husband’s heart by an innocent little strategem, more frequent appeals were made to the drawer in which the treasure was locked up, so that, in the end, her private dowry was reduced to thirty pounds.

If Ingram could have but taken part in this plan of hers! The only regret that was mingled with her anticipations of a happier future concerned this faithful friend of hers, who seemed to have been cut off from them forever. And it soon became apparent to her that her husband, so far from inclining to forget the misunderstanding that had arisen between Ingram and himself, seemed to feel increased resentment, insomuch that she was most careful to avoid mentioning his name.

She was soon to meet him, however. Lavender was resolved that he would not appear to have retired from the field merely because Ingram had entered it. He would go to this dinner on the Tuesday evening, and Sheila would accompany him. First, he asked her. Much as she would have preferred not visiting these particular people, she cheerfully acquiesced; she was not going to be churlish or inconsiderate on the very eve of her dramatic coup. Then he went to Mrs. Lorraine, and said he had persuaded Sheila to come with him; and the young American lady and her mamma were good enough to say how glad they were she had come to this decision. They appeared to take it for granted that it was Sheila alone who had declined former invitations.

“Mr. Ingram will be there on Tuesday evening,” said Lavender to his wife.

“I was not aware he knew them,” said Sheila, remembering, indeed, how scrupulously Ingram had refused to know them.

“He has made their acquaintance for his own purposes, doubtless,” said Lavender. “I suppose he will appear in a frock-coat, with a bright blue tie, and he will say ‘Sir’ to the waiters when he does not understand them.”

“I thought you said Mr. Ingram belonged to a very good family,” said Sheila, quietly.

“That is so. But each man is responsible for his own manners; and as all the society he sees consists of a cat and some wooden pipes in a couple of dingy rooms in Sloane Street, you can’t expect him not to make an ass of himself.”

“I have never seen him make himself ridiculous; I do not think it possible,” said Sheila, with a certain precision of speech which Lavender had got to know meant much. “But that is a matter for himself. Perhaps you will tell me what I am to do when I meet him at Mrs. Kavanagh’s house.”

“Of course you must meet him as you would any one else, you know. If you don’t wish to speak to him, you need not do so. Saying ‘Good evening’ costs nothing.”

“If he takes me into dinner?” she asked, calmly.

“Then you must talk to him as you would to any stranger,” he said, impatiently. “Ask him if he has been to the opera, and he won’t know there is no opera going on. Tell him that the town is very full, and he won’t know that everybody has left. Say you may meet him again at Mrs. Kavanagh’s, and you’ll see that he doesn’t know they mean to start for the Tyrol in a fortnight. I think you and I must also be settling soon where we mean to go. I don’t think we can do better than go to the Tyrol.”

She did not answer. It was clear that he had given up all intention of going up to Lewis, for that year at least. But she would not beg him to alter his decision just yet. Mairi was coming, and that experiment of the enchanted room has still to be tried.

As they drove around to Mrs. Kavanagh’s house on that Tuesday evening, she thought, with much bitterness of heart, of the possibility of her having to meet Mr. Ingram in the fashion her husband had suggested. Would it not be better, if he did take her in to dinner, to throw herself entirely on his mercy, and ask him not to talk to her at all. She would address herself, when there was a chance, to her neighbor on the other side; if she remained silent altogether, no great harm would be done.

When she went into the drawing-room her first glance around was for him, and he was the first person whom she saw; for, instead of withdrawing into a corner to make one neighbor the victim of his shyness, or concealing his embarrassment in studying the photographic albums, Mr. Ingram was coolly standing on the hearth-rug, with both hands in his trousers pockets, while he was engaged in giving the American judge a great deal of authoritative information about America. The judge was a tall, fair, stout, good-natured man, fond of joking and a good dinner, and he was content at this moment to sit quietly in an easy-chair, with a pleasant smile on his face, and be lectured about his own country by this sallow little man, whom he took to be a professor of modern history at some college or other.

Ingram, as soon as he found that Sheila was in the room, relieved her from any doubt as to his intentions. He merely came forward, shook hands with her, and said, “How do you do, Mrs. Lavender?” and went back to the judge. She might have been an acquaintance of yesterday or a friend of twenty years’ standing; no one could tell by his manner. As for Sheila, she parted with his hand reluctantly. She tried to look, too, what she dared not say; but whatever of regret and kindness and assurance of friendship was in her eyes he did not see. He scarcely glanced at her face; he went off at once, and plunged again into the Cincinnati Convention.

Mrs. Kavanagh and Mrs. Lorraine were exceedingly and almost obtrusively kind to her, but she scarcely heard what they said to her. It seemed so strange and so sad to her that her old friend should be standing near her, and she so far removed from him that she dared not go and speak to him. She could not understand it sometimes: everything around her seemed to get confused, until she felt as if she were sinking in a great sea, and could utter but one despairing cry as she saw the light disappear above her head. When they went in to dinner she saw that Mr. Ingram’s seat was on Mrs. Lorraine’s right hand, and, although she could hear him speak, as he was almost right opposite to her, it seemed to her that his voice sounded as if it were far away. The man who had taken her in was a tall, brown-whiskered and faultlessly dressed person who never spoke, so that she was allowed to sit and listen to the conversation between Mrs. Lorraine and Mr. Ingram. They appeared to be on excellent terms. You would have fancied they had known each other for years. And as Sheila sat and saw how pre-occupied and pleased with his companion Mr. Ingram was, perhaps now and again the bitter question arose to her mind whether this woman, who had taken away her husband, was seeking to take away her friend also. Sheila knew nothing of all that happened within these past few days. She knew only that she was alone, without either husband or friend, and it seemed to her that this pale American girl had taken both away from her.

Ingram was in one of his happiest moods, and was seeking to prove to Mrs. Lorraine that this present dinner-party ought to be an especially pleasant one. Everybody was going away somewhere, and of course she must know that the expectation of traveling was much more delightful than the reality of it. What could surpass the sense of freedom, of power, of hope, enjoyed by the happy folks who sat down to an open atlas and began to sketch out routes for their coming holidays? Where was he going? Oh, he was going to the North. Had Mrs. Lorraine never seen Edinburgh Castle rising out of a gray fog, like the ghost of some great building belonging to the times of Arthurian romance? Had she never seen the Northern twilights, and the awful gloom and wild colors of Lock Coruisk and the Skye hills? There was no holiday-making so healthy, so free from restraint, as that among the far Highland hills and glens, where the clear mountain air, scented with miles and miles of heather, seemed to produce a sort of intoxication of good spirits within one. Then the yachting around the wonderful islands of the West—the rapid runs of a bright forenoon, the shooting of the wild sea-birds, the scrambled dinners in the small cabin, the still nights in the small harbors, with a scent of sea-weed aboard, and the white stars shining down on the trembling water. Yes, he was going yachting this autumn; in about a fortnight he hoped to start. His friend was at present away up Loch Boisdale, in South Uist, and he did not know how to get there except by going to Skye, and taking his chance of some boat going over. Where would they go then? He did not know. Wherever his friend liked. It would be enough for him if they kept always moving about, seeing the strange sights of the sea and the air and the lonely shores of those Northern islands. Perhaps they might even try to reach St. Kilda—

“Oh, Mr. Ingram, won’t you go and see my papa?”

The cry that suddenly reached him was like the cry of a broken heart. He started as from a trance, and found Sheila regarding him with a piteous appeal in her face: she had been listening intently to all he had said.

“Oh yes, Sheila,” he said kindly, and quite forgetting that he was speaking to her before strangers: “of course I must go and see your papa if we are any way near the Lewis. Perhaps you may be there then?”

“No,” said Sheila, looking down.

“Won’t you go to the Highlands this Autumn?” Mrs. Lorraine asked in a friendly way.

“No,” said Sheila in a measured voice, as she looked her enemy fair in the face; “I think we are going to the Tyrol.”

If the child had only known what occurred to Mrs. Lorraine’s mind at this moment! Not a triumphant sense of Lavender’s infatuation, as Sheila probably fancied, but a very definite resolution that if Frank Lavender went to the Tyrol, it was not with either her or her mother he should go.

“Mrs. Lavender’s father is an old friend of mine,” said Ingram, loud enough for all to hear; “and, hospitable as all Highlanders are, I have never met his equal in that way, and I have tried his patience a good many times. What do you think, Mrs. Lorraine, of a man who would give up his best gun to you, even though you couldn’t shoot a bit, and he particularly proud of his shooting? And so if you lived with him for a month or six months—each day the best of everything for you, the second best for your friend, the worst for himself. Wasn’t it so, Lavender?”

It was a direct challenge sent across the table, and Sheila’s heart beat quick lest her husband should say something ungracious.

“Yes, certainly,” said Lavender with a readiness that pleased Sheila. “I, at least, have no right to complain of his hospitality.”

“Your papa is a very handsome man,” said Mrs. Lorraine to Sheila, bringing the conversation back to their own end of the table. “I have seen few finer heads than that drawing you have. Mr. Lavender did that, did he not? Why has he never done one of you?”

“He is too busy, I think, just now,” Sheila said, perhaps not knowing that from Mrs. Lorraine’s waist-belt at that moment depended a fan which might have given evidence as to the extreme scarcity of time under which Lavender was supposed to labor.

“He has a splendid head,” said Ingram. “Did you know that he is called the King of Borva up there?”

“I have heard of him being called the King of Thule,” said Mrs. Lorraine, turning with a smile to Sheila, “and of his daughter being styled a princess. Do you know the ballad of the King of Thule, in Faust, Mrs. Lavender?”

“In the opera?—yes,” said Sheila.

“Will you sing it for us after dinner?”

“If you like.”

The promise was fulfilled, in a fashion. The notion that Mr. Ingram was about to go away up to Lewis, to the people who knew her and to her father’s house, with no possible answer to the questions which would certainly be showered upon him as to why she had not come also, troubled Sheila deeply. The ladies went into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Lorraine got out the song. Sheila sat down to the piano, thinking far more of that small stone house at Borva than of the King of Thule’s castle overlooking the sea; and yet somehow the first lines of the song, though she knew them well enough, sent a pang to her heart as she glanced at them. She touched the first notes of the accompaniment, and she looked at the words again:

A mist came over her eyes. Was she the one who had departed, leaving the old king in his desolate house by the sea, where he could only think of her as he sat in his solitary chamber, with the night winds howling around the shore outside? When her birthday had come around she knew that he must have silently drank to her, though not out of a beaker of gold. And now, when mere friends and acquaintances were free, to speed away to the North, and get a welcome from the folks in Borva, and listen to the Atlantic waves dashing lightly in among the rocks, her hope of getting thither had almost died out. Among such people as landed on Stornoway quay from the big Clansman her father would seek one face, and seek it in vain. And Duncan and Scarlett, and even John the Piper—all the well-remembered folks who lived far away across the Minch—they would ask why Miss Sheila was never coming back.

Mrs. Lorraine had been standing aside from the piano. Noticing that Sheila had played the introduction to the song twice over in an undetermined manner, she came forward a step or two and pretended to be looking at the music. Tears were running down Sheila’s face. Mrs. Lorraine put her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and sheltered her from observation, and said aloud: “You have it in a different key, have you not? Pray don’t sing it; sing something else. Do you know any of Gounod’s sacred songs? Let me see if we can find anything for you in this volume.”

They were a long time finding anything in that volume. When they did find it, behold! it was one of Mrs. Lorraine’s songs, and that young lady said if Mrs. Lavender would only allow herself to be superseded for a few minutes. And so Sheila walked, with her head down, to the conservatory, which was at the other end of the piano; and Mrs. Lorraine not only sung this French song, but sang every one of the verses; and at the end of it she had quite forgotten that Sheila had promised to sing.

“You are very sensitive,” she said to Sheila, coming into the conservatory.

“I am very stupid,” Sheila said with her face burning. “But it is a long time since I will see the Highlands—and Mr. Ingram was talking of the places I know—and—and—so—”

“I understand well enough,” said Mrs. Lorraine tenderly, as if Sheila was a mere child in her hands. “But you must not get your eyes red. You have to sing some of those Highland songs for us, when the gentlemen come in. Come up to my room and I will make your eyes all right. Oh, do not be afraid! I shall not bring you down like Lady Leveret. Did you ever see anything like that woman’s face to-night? It reminds me of the window of an oil and color shop. I wonder she does not catch flies with her cheeks.”

So all the people, Sheila learned that night, were going away from London, and she and her husband would join in the general stampede of the very last dwellers in town. But Mairi? What was to become of her after that little plot had been played out? Sheila could not leave Mairi to see London by herself; she had been enjoying beforehand the delight of taking the young girl about and watching the wonder of her eyes. Nor could she fairly postpone Mairi’s visit, and Mairi was coming up in another couple of days.

On the morning on which the visitor from the far Hebrides was to make her appearance in London, Sheila felt conscious of a great hypocrisy in bidding good-bye to her husband. On some excuse or other she had had breakfast ordered early, and he found himself ready at half-past nine to go out for the day.

“Frank,” she said, “will you come in to lunch at two?”

“Why?” he asked; he did not often have luncheon at home.

“I will go into the Park with you in the afternoon if you like,” she said; all the scene had been diligently rehearsed on one side, before.

Lavender was a little surprised, but he was in an amiable mood.

“All right!” he said. “Have something with olives in it. Two, sharp.”

With that he went out, and Sheila, with a wild commotion at her heart, saw him walk away through the square. She was afraid Mairi might have arrived before he left. And, indeed, he had not gone above a few minutes, when a four-wheeler drove up, and an elderly man got out and waited for the timid-faced girl inside to alight. With rush like that of a startled deer, Sheila was down the stairs, along the hall and on the pavement; and it was: “Oh, Mairi; and have you come at last? And are you very well? And how are all the people in Borva? And Mr. M’Alpine, how are you? and will you come into the house?”

Certainly, that was a strange sight for a decorous London square—the mistress of a house, a young girl with bare head, coming out on the pavement to shake hands in a frantic fashion with a young maid-servant and an elderly man whose clothes had been pretty well tanned by sunlight and sea-water! And Sheila would herself help to carry Mairi’s luggage in. And she would take no denial from Mr. M’Alpine, whose luggage was also carried in. And she would herself pay the cabman, as strangers did not know about these things, Sheila’s knowledge being exhibited by her hastily giving the man five shillings for driving from Euston Station. And there was breakfast waiting for them both as soon as Mairi could get her face washed; and would Mr. M’Alpine have a glass of whisky after the night’s traveling? and it was very good whisky whatever, as it had come all the way from Stornoway. Mr. M’Alpine was nothing loath.

“And wass you pretty well, Miss Sheila?” said Mairi, looking timidly and hastily up, and forgetting altogether that Sheila had another name now. “It will be a great thing for me to go back to sa Lewis, and tell them I wass seeing you, and you wass looking so well. And I will be thinking I wass neffer coming to any one I knew any more; and it is a great fright I hef had since we came away from sa Lewis; and I wass thinking we would neffer find you among all sa people and so far away across sa sea and sa land. Eh—!” The girl stopped in astonishment. Her eyes had wandered up to a portrait on the walls; and here, in this very room, after she had traveled over all this great distance, apparently leaving behind her everything but the memory of her home, was Mr. Mackenzie himself, looking at her from under his shaggy eyebrows.

“You must have seen that picture in Borva, Mairi,” Sheila said. “Now come with me, like a good girl, and get yourself ready for breakfast. Do you know, Mairi, it does my heart good to hear you talk again? I don’t think I shall be able to let you go back to the Lewis.”

“But you hef changed ferry much in your way of speaking, Miss—Mrs. Lavender,” said Mairi, with an effort. “You will speak just like sa English now.”

“The English don’t say so,” replied Sheila, with a smile, leading the way up stairs.

Mr. M’Alpine had his business to attend to, but, being a sensible man, he took advantage of the profuse breakfast placed before him. Mairi was a little too frightened and nervous and happy to eat much, but Mr. M’Alpine was an old traveler, not to be put out by the mere meeting of two girls. He listened in a grave and complacent manner to the rapid questions and answers of Mairi and her hostess; but he himself was too busy to join in the conversation much. At the end of breakfast he accepted, after a little pressing, half a glass of whisky; and then, much comforted and in a thoroughly good humor with himself and the world, got his luggage out again and went on his way toward a certain inn in High Holborn.

“Ay, and where does the queen live, Miss Sheila?” said Mairi. She had been looking at the furniture in Sheila’s house, and wondering if the queen lived in a place still more beautiful than this.

“A long way from here.”

“And it iss no wonder,” said Mairi, “she will neffer hef been in sa Lewis. I wass neffer thinking the world wass so big, and it wass many a time since me and Mr. M’Alpine hef come away from Styornoway I wass thinking it wass too far for me effer to get back again. But it iss many a one will say to me, before I hef left the Lewis, that I wass not to come home unless you wass coming, too, and I wass to bring you back with me, Miss Sheila. And where is Bras, Miss Sheila?”

“You will see him by and by. He is out in the garden now.” She said “gyarden” without knowing it.

“And will he understand the Gaelic yet?”

“Oh, yes,” Sheila said. “And he is sure to remember you.”

There was no mistake about that. When Mairi went into the back garden the demonstrations of delight on the part of the great deerhound were as pronounced as his dignity and gravity would allow. And Mairi fairly fell upon his neck and kissed him, and addressed to him a hundred endearing phrases in Gaelic, every word of which it was quite obvious that the dog understood. London was already beginning to be less terrible to her. She had met and talked with Sheila. Here was Bras. A portrait of the King of Borva was hung up inside, and all around the rooms were articles which she had known in the North, before Sheila had married and brought them away into this strange land.

“You have never asked after my husband, Mairi,” said Sheila, thinking to confuse the girl.

But Mairi was not confused. Probably she had been fancying that Mr. Lavender was down at the shore, or had gone out fishing, or something of that sort, and would return soon enough. It was Sheila, not he, whom she was concerned about. Indeed, Mairi had caught up a little of that jealousy of Lavender which was rife among the Borva folks. They would speak no ill of Mr. Lavender. The young gentleman whom Miss Sheila had chosen had by that very fact a claim upon their respect. Mr. Mackenzie’s son-in-law was a person of importance. And yet in their secret hearts they bore a grudge against him. What right had he to come away up to the North and carry off the very pride of the island? Were English girls not good enough for him, that he must needs come up and take away Sheila Mackenzie, and keep her there in the South so that her friends and acquaintances saw no more of her? Before the marriage Mairi had a great liking and admiration for Mr. Lavender. She was so pleased to see Miss Sheila pleased that she approved of the young man, and thanking him in her heart for making her cousin and mistress so obviously happy. Perhaps, indeed, Mairi managed to fall in love with him a little bit herself, merely by force of example and through sympathy with Sheila; and she was rapidly forming very good opinions of the English race and their ways and their looks. But when Lavender took away Sheila from Borva a change came over Mairi’s sentiments. She gradually fell in with the current opinions of the island—that it was a great pity Sheila had not married young Mr. MacIntyre of Sutherland, or some one who would have allowed her to remain among her own people. Mairi began to think that the English, though they were handsome and good-natured, and free with their money, were on the whole a selfish race, inconsiderate and forgetful of promises. She began to dislike the English, and wished they would stay in their own country, and not interfere with other people.

“I hope he is very well,” said Mairi, dutifully; she could at least say that honestly.

“You will see him at two o’clock. He is coming in to luncheon; and he does not know you are here, and you are to be a great surprise to him, Mairi. And there is to be a greater surprise still; for we are going to make one of the rooms into the drawing-room at home; and you must open your boxes, and bring me down the heather and the peat, Mairi, and the two bottles; and then, you know, when the salmon is on the table, and the whisky and the beer, and Bras lying on the hearth-rug, and the peat-smoke all through the room, then you will come in and shake hands with him, and he will think he is in Borva again.”

Mairi was a little puzzled. She did not understand the intention of this strange thing. But she went and fetched the materials she had brought with her from Lewis, and Sheila and she set to work.

It was a pleasant enough occupation for this bright forenoon, and Sheila, as she had heard Mairi’s sweet Highland speech, and as she brought from all parts of the house the curiosities sent her from the Hebrides, would almost have fancied she was superintending a “cleaning” of that museum-like little drawing-room at Borva. Skins of foxes, seals and deer, stuffed eagles and strange fishes, masses of coral and wonderful carvings in wood brought from abroad, shells of every size from every clime—all these were brought together into Frank Lavender’s smoking-room. The ordinary ornaments of the mantelpiece gave way to fanciful arrangements of peacock’s feathers. Fresh-blown ling and the beautiful spikes of the bell-heather formed the staple of the decorations, and Mairi had brought enough to adorn an assembly room.

“That is like the Lewis people,” Sheila said, with a laugh; she had not been in as happy a mood for many a day. “I asked you to bring one peat, and of course you brought two. Tell the truth, Mairi: could you have forced yourself to bring one peat?”

“I wass thinking it was safer to bring sa two,” replied Mairi, blushing all over the fair and pretty face.

And, indeed, there being two peats, Sheila thought she might as well try an experiment with one. She crumbled down some pieces, put them on a plate, lit them, and placed the plate outside the open window, on the soil. Presently a new, sweet, half-forgotten fragrance came floating in, and Sheila almost forgot the success of the experiment in the half-delighted, half-sad reminiscences called up by the scent of the peat. Mairi failed to see how any one could willfully smoke a house—any one, that is to say, who did not save the smoke for his thatch. And who was so particular as Sheila had been about having the clothes come in from the washing dried so that they should not retain this very odor that seemed now to delight her?

At last the room was finished, and Sheila contemplated it with much satisfaction. The table was laid, and on the white cloth stood the bottles most familiar to Borva. The peat-smoke still lingered in the air; she could not have wished anything to be better.

Then she went off to look after the luncheon, and Mairi was permitted to go down and explore the mysteries of the kitchen. The servants were not accustomed to this interference and oversight, and might have resented it, only that Sheila had proved a very good mistress to them, and had shown, too, that she would have her own way when she wanted it. Suddenly, as Sheila was explaining to Mairi the use of some particular piece of mechanism, she heard a sound that made her heart jump. It was now but half-past one, and yet that was surely her husband’s foot in the hall. For a moment she was too bewildered to know what to do. She heard him go straight into the very room she had been decorating, the door of which she had left open. Then, as she went upstairs, with her heart still beating fast, the first thing that met her eyes was a tartan shawl belonging to Mairi that had been accidentally left in the passage. Her husband must have seen it.

“Sheila, what nonsense is this?” he said.

He was evidently in a hurry, and yet she could not answer; her heart was throbbing too quickly.

“Look here,” he said, “I wish you’d give up this grotto-making till to-morrow. Mrs. Kavanagh, Mrs. Lorraine and Lord Arthur Redmond are coming here to luncheon at two. I suppose you can get something decent for them. What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this?”

And then his eyes rested on the tartan shawl, which he had really not noticed before.

“Who is in the house?” he said. “Have you asked some washerwoman to lunch?”

Sheila managed at last to say, “It is Mairi come from Stornoway. I was thinking you would be surprised to see her when you came in.”

“And these preparations are for her?”

Sheila said nothing; there was that in the tone of her husband’s voice which was gradually bringing her to herself and giving her quite sufficient firmness.

“And now that this girl has come up, I suppose you mean to introduce her to all your friends; and I suppose you expect those people who are coming in half an hour to sit down at table with a kitchen-maid?”

“Mairi,” said Sheila, standing quite erect, but with her eyes cast down, “is my cousin.”

“Your cousin! Don’t be ridiculous, Sheila. You know very well that Mairi is nothing more or less than a scullery-maid; and I suppose you mean to take her out of the kitchen and introduce her to people, and expect her to sit down at table with them. Is not that so?” She did not answer, and he went on, impatiently: “Why was I not told that this girl was coming to stay at my house? Surely I have some right to know what guests you invite, that I may be able at least to ask my friends not to come near the house while they are in it.”

“That I did not tell you before—yes, that was a pity,” said Sheila, sadly and calmly. “But it will be no trouble to you. When Mrs. Lorraine comes up at two o’clock there will be luncheon for her and for her friends. She will not have to sit down with any of my relations or with me, for if they are not fit to meet her, I am not; and it is not any great matter that I do not meet her at two o’clock.”

There was no passion of any sort in the measured and sad voice, nor in the somewhat pale face and downcast eyes. Perhaps it was this composure that deceived Frank Lavender; at all events, he turned and walked out of the house, satisfied that he would not have to introduce this Highland cousin to his friends, and just as certain that Sheila would repent of her resolve and appear in the dining-room as usual.

Sheila went down stairs to the kitchen, where Mairi still stood awaiting her. She gave orders to one of the servants about having luncheon laid in the dining-room at two, and then she bade Mairi follow her up-stairs.

“Mairi,” she said, when they were alone, “I want you to put your things in your trunk at once—in five minutes, if you can; I shall be waiting for you.”

“Miss Sheila!” cried the girl, looking up to her friend’s face with a sudden fright seizing her heart, “what is the matter with you? You are going to die!”

“There is nothing the matter, Mairi. I am going away.”

She uttered the words placidly, but there was a pained look about the lips that could not be concealed, and her face, unknown to herself, had the whiteness of despair in it.

“Going away!” said Mairi, in a bewildered way. “Where are you going, Miss Sheila?”

“I will tell you by and by. Get your trunk ready, Mairi. You are keeping me waiting.”

Then she called for a servant, who was sent for a cab; and by the time the vehicle appeared Mairi was ready to get into it, and her trunk was put on the top. Then, clad in the rough blue dress she used to wear in Borva, and with no appearance of haste or fear in the calm and death-like face, Sheila came out from her husband’s house and found herself alone in the world. There were two little girls, the daughters of a neighbor, passing by at the time; she patted them on the head and bade them good-morning. Could she recollect, five minutes thereafter, having seen them? There was a strange and distant look in her eyes.

She got into the cab, and sat down by Mairi, and then took the girl’s hand. “I am sorry to take you away, Mairi,” she said; but she was apparently not thinking of Mairi, nor of the house she was leaving, nor yet of the vehicle in which she was so strangely placed. Was she thinking of a certain wild and wet day in the far Hebrides, when a young bride stood on the decks of a great vessel and saw the home of her childhood and the friends of her youth fade back into the desolate waste of the sea? Perhaps there may have been some unconscious influence in this picture to direct her movements at this moment, for of definite resolves she had none. When Mairi told her that the cabman wanted to know whither he was to drive, she merely answered: “Oh, yes, Mairi, we will go to the station;” and Mairi added, addressing the man: “It was the Euston Station.” Then they drove away.

“Are you going home?” said the young girl, looking up with a strange foreboding and sinking of the heart to the pale face and distant eyes—“are you going home, Miss Sheila?”

“Oh, yes, we are going home, Mairi,” was the answer she got, but the tone in which it was uttered filled her mind with doubt, and something like despair.