Brilliant sunlight lit up the grey spires and threatening pinnacles of St. Malo. The back of the ancient fortress was hidden in white mist, but the houses which rose above the battlements facing the harbour, and the shops and little taverns near the quay, shone out in brightness, their windows glittering under the sky where straying clouds, driven by the wind, were melting, as they fled, into the all-encompassing blue ether. Some pigeons and wild gulls circled above the earthworks, darting down, at times, between the massive oak piles which, forced deep into the sand, were covered with shining seaweed. The piercing note of the military bugle, the crack of the cabmen's long whips, the clatter of wooden shoes, and the Angelus bells then chiming, made up a volume of sound which fell on Robert's ears with all the poignant strangeness of an old song heard again after many years. A hundred memories flocked into his mind at the first distant view of that familiar scene: memories of his boyhood, its errors, its visions, its ambitions; his revolt against nature as he understood it, and his desire to keep his heart and soul and senses for the service of God, and the custody of his own ideals. The very centre of his thoughts was here: here he had found the first beginnings of his faith and love. How often he had walked alone upon those ramparts with his New Testament and the Morte d'Arthur, striving, in the fervour of romantic sentiment, to combine the standards of knightly chivalry with the austere counsels of the gospel. The divinity of Christ is the object of eternal contemplations, and at every age—not of the world only, but of the individual—His Humanity, under our fresh knowledge, demands a different study and a fuller understanding. What changes, therefore, experience and suffering had wrought in those early, untried speculations! The ideals remained, but they made for swords, not peace; the sweetness of the dream had become an inflexible law of conscience; the doctrine of a transcendent disdain of this world, accepted in solitude by the obscure youth brought up in a provincial town, had exacted its tax to the uttermost farthing from the man who struggled now with the rich and powerful in a great city of the great universe of affairs.... He thought of his dead godmother, Madame Bertin, with her still, pale face and beautiful hands—a cold, blameless woman who had treated him kindly and misunderstood him always. She had been his father's friend; she had loved him, in her own stern, silent fashion, for his father's sake. O, if she might only know now how much he treasured every impression he had formed of her strong character! She had given him all the tenderness she had, and all the motherly influence his childhood had received. What might his life have been without that early association with a noble if somewhat restricted nature? But these and similar thoughts, while they went deep, passed swiftly and did not return again till a very different moment, when they came with agony and remained for ever.

He and Brigit were the last to leave the boat. They had been so happy there that, by an instinct, they lingered behind the others, unwilling to break the enchantment of their isolation from the land, and half-dreading the unknown trials, or joys, which awaited, surely enough, their first steps upon the soil. As they crossed the plank they looked back, obeying a common impulse, at the deserted deck. Their chairs had already been moved away, and the leeward corner, which had seemed so much their own, was filled up by a small group of sailors who were quarrelling about the division of pourboires. The drive to Miraflores is long and winding, past several small villages, and approached finally through a large tract of fields and orchards. But for the changing crimson of the vines, it might have been August weather. Robins, however, were singing, and the golden, brown, and russet butterflies of autumn were floating languidly above the wayside hedges. The cawing of rooks, the cooing of wood-pigeons, and the hum of insects invaded the stillness of the lonely farms which, at long distances, gave picturesque evidence of the human toil expended on the careful, rather melancholy charm of that northern landscape. The Villa Miraflores—an elaborate reproduction of the celebrated Villa Madama near Rome—stood on a wooded hill rising out of a river, facing the rocky sea-coast. Built by the Archduke Charles of Alberia for his morganatic wife, Henriette Duboc, and pulled down since for the erection of a convent, it is never mentioned in history, and it has been long forgotten by the few inhabitants of the neighbourhood. But as the young couple entered the lodge gates that day, and drove along the stately avenue, the beautiful ill-fated structure rose before them as some castle in the air brought down to earth by a magician's wand. Was this their home? They dared not speak lest the vision should fade too soon. But Orange remembered it all—this was no dream. There were the winding alleys leading to peeps of water, land and sky; there was the path which he had followed, years before, in search of his destiny. He drew a long breath, drinking in the intoxicating strength of the fresh sea air wafted through pine-trees. The atmosphere was charged with the very madness of youth and joy. Who could have hoped for such a miracle as this? Had the whole course of fate a like to show? Did it not seem a triumph over life and its threatened deceptions? His own servant and Brigit's maid—whom they had sent there some days before—were watching for them at the open door, and the sight of those well-known faces gave him a still further assurance of the scene's actuality. They crossed the hall without noticing a small blue telegram on one of the malachite tables. They walked together through every room, wondering at their treasures, looking out of the windows, amazed, bewitched, gradually becoming used to the fact of each other's company in such a solitude. What were the woes and cryings of the outer world to them, lost in the impenetrable silence of that retreat? A strange, double sensation of delight and forgetfulness surged in them both. All knowledge of disturbing human influences, of the fret, and discord, and inquietude of common existence seemed trivial and even false. They looked with confidence into each other's eyes, as though they were the sole inhabitants of some brilliant, inaccessible star set far above the earth and its evil. They were to remain there a month—one month at least—and after that would trials, or labour, or sorrow deluge in bitterness the sweet, eternal recollection of such days? A table had been set for them in one of the small pavilions leading on to a balcony. The scent of flowers, mingling with the sunlight, came in through the open windows, bringing the garden's freshness to the faded lilacs on the carpet and tapestry. Brigit went to the looking-glass, took off her hat, and apologised for her “frightful appearance.” She had thrown her veil and gloves on the sofa, and the mere sight of them there gave a homeliness to that forsaken room which, with its rococo decorations, painted ceilings, and gilded doors, had something of the dead gaiety of an empty theatre. Brigit made the tea, following the English custom taught her by PensÉe. Was the water boiling? Did he like sugar? How absurd not to know whether one's husband took cream! The two had seen so little of each other in domestic surroundings that this little commonplace intimacy had an intoxicating charm.

“Are you happy?” she asked suddenly. “Do you know that you are all I love in the world, and I am yours for ever and ever?”

“Yes, I know.”

“And how much do you love me?”

“I shall never be able to say how much.”

She took his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her heart, then asked him, with some confusion, if he liked grapes better than pears.

“You are so beautiful,” he replied.

“Not to-day,” she answered; “to-day I am quite dull. But you are handsome. I saw them looking at you on the boat. And I was proud—oh, so proud to think that you were mine.”

When they had finished their meal, she opened the piano and struck out some chords, which echoed with a kind of wail through the long corridors outside. The instrument was out of tune, and the strings seemed muffled.

“Something is inside,” she said.

They looked and discovered a few sheets of music which had slipped down upon the wires. The sheets were dusty, stained with age, blurred by damp, but one bore the name “Henriette” written in the corner in a large, defiant hand. Joining the fragments, they found it was an arrangement in manuscript of Poe's ballad, “Annabel Lee.”

As Brigit read aloud these words of haunting pathos, the very trees, rustling outside in the October wind, the far-away sound of the waves beating upon the sand, seemed to Robert an ominous accompaniment—half a warning, half a promise.

“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder why that was there?”

He was uneasy, he could not say why. He was conscious of some influence in the room. He felt, unaccountably, that they were not alone. Looking round for some confirmation of this strange instinct his eyes fell on the small blue envelope which had been placed on the mantelpiece by his servant. It was addressed to himself. Fortunately, whilst he was opening it, Brigit's attention was still riveted on the old song which she was humming over at the piano. She spoke to him three times before he answered.

“This telegram,” he said, at last, trying to control his voice, “is from Reckage. He is on his way now to see me.”

“He is coming here? Why is he coming here?”

He put his arm round her, in a desperate, long embrace, kissing her face, her eyes, her hair.

“What is it, Robert?” she said, clinging to him, for she heard something like a sob under his breath. “You have had bad news. You must tell me.”

“It may not be so serious ... perhaps it is badly worded ... but PensÉe is coming with him and he says quite plainly that there is some legal difficulty about our marriage.”

“Some legal difficulty!” she repeated. “What is the use of that now? I can't leave you again. I'll die first. I can't bear it. O, Robert, I am so tired of the law. There are no laws for the birds, or for the flowers, or for the trees, or for any thing that is happy! Why should we be made so miserable—just to please the magistrates and mayors!”

“But it is more than that—I am certain. Suppose it has something to do with Parflete?”

“With Wrexham? How could that be? He is dead.”

“He may not be dead.”

She sank down to the floor on her knees.

“O my God! You know that he is living.”

“Reckage doesn't say so. But would he and PensÉe come unless they felt we should need them?”

“I need no one except you. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear their news. They are killing you. You seem calm, but your face! you have never looked like this before. O, darling, it can't be what you think it is.”

He lifted her from the ground and took her in his arms again, as though he could defy the cruel, invisible fate which had decreed their separation.

“In any case,” he said, “I won't give you back—I cannot. It is too much to ask. You are mine—you were never his—never. God is not unjust, and this is unjust. As for other people and outside opinion, they have not mattered to me at any time, and least of all can they matter now. I won't give you back.”

She held him closer, already feeling, in spite of his words, the first agony of their inevitable farewell.

“You love me!” she said, “you must never leave me. Kiss me, and promise me that you will never leave me.”

Grief and horror had broken down every barrier of reserve between them. The pent-up passion on his side, the intense unconscious tenderness on hers seemed to meet and blend in the one consuming thought that they belonged to each other—that, in the awful struggle between the force of circumstances and the force of life—they might have to part.

“Why should we two matter in so large a world?” she cried. “Surely we need not suffer so much just for the discipline of our own souls? I cannot, cannot, cannot go away. I can't live without you. I can't die without you. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of trying to forget you. And I have tried so hard.”

Her face, from which all colour and joy and animation had departed, seemed like a June rose dead, in all its perfection, on the tree. One may see many such in a garden after a sudden frost.

“You mustn't leave me. They all frighten me. I have no one but you,” she continued; “God will understand. He doesn't ask any one to be alone. He wasn't even crucified—alone. He didn't enter into Paradise—alone. Ask me to do anything, but don't ask me to go away—to go back to Wrexham. You are much stronger than I am. If you thought you ought to cut out your heart by little pieces, you would do it. But you must think of me. They may have all my money—that is all they care for. But I must have you.”

Although she made the appeal, he had resolved, in silence, long before, that, come what might, he would not give her back. The decision rose on the instant, without hesitation, doubt, or misgiving—a deliberate choice between two courses.

“You cannot return to Parflete,” he said quietly. “Don't despair. Your marriage with him may be annulled. That aspect of the question is revolting, abominable; but we are both in such a false position now that we owe it as much to other people as we do to ourselves to put everything in a true light. You are so brave, Brigit——“

“I am tired of being brave.”

Her slender arms tightened about his neck; he could feel, from the whole abandonment of her attitude and the slight weight of her childish form, how little fitted she was physically for the squalid ordeal of the law-courts. If she could live at all through horrors of the kind, it would have to be by a miracle. And has one the right to hope for miracles where the question of happiness or unhappiness in human love is the egoistic point at stake? But, right or no right, there was in them both that supreme and fatal force of affection which, if it be unusual, is at least usual enough to be at the root of most mortal tragedies.

“I am tired or being brave,” she repeated. “I want to rest.”

In the mirror opposite them he saw the reflection of the bright garden outside. How calm and still it seemed! Had he wandered there, years before, with a beating heart, in search of his destiny, merely to find it at last after the humiliation of a public scandal? Had his idyllic, almost mystical romance, with all its aspirations, grace, and unspeakable strength, been given to him just to be called from the house-tops and discussed in the streets? Was this the end of all sublime ideals? Did every delicate, secret sentiment have to endure, soon or late, the awful test of degradation and mockery? Did it have to come—this terrible day of trial when the Love which moves the sun and the other stars had to pass through the common sieve with dust, ashes, and much that was infinitely viler? No, he told himself, no: ten thousand times, no.

“Listen,” he said, “listen. You need not go back to him: he knows—every one knows now that we love each other. We can't live together because our marriage is not a marriage. Your marriage with Parflete was not a marriage, but it appears so to the world. Is it worth while to undeceive the world? When I think of the cost of such a proof—I say it is too great. But it you are courageous—and you will be for my sake—we can defy every one—on one condition. We must be sure of ourselves. We must know that we can depend on ourselves. We may have to separate now for some months—perhaps a year—perhaps longer; we must school ourselves to look upon each other as friends—friends, nothing more. It will be very hard—for me, and it is on my account only that we must separate now. But you will accept this, even if you cannot understand it, because my life here depends on you. I don't say anything about my happiness. I leave that out of the reckoning. But if I am to live—to get through the day's work, I must love you and I must see you. Later on, we may be able to meet quite often. This will be something to which I can look forward. All this has been in my mind always—ever since I first met you. I feel now as though every thought, every hour, every event of the last five months has been a preparation for this moment. On one point, however, I have never wavered. We can't desecrate our love by some odious law-suit. If this life were all, it would be different. But it isn't all. It seems as though we are not to be everything to each other. Yet we can be more than everything—we can be one existence even if we cannot be man and wife. We can help each other, we may see each other—in time.”

“In time?” she repeated. The certainty that she would have to be deprived of his presence for the greater part, at all events, of her life came over her with intolerable anguish, and with it she felt a presentiment of the future struggle to be waged against the profound instinct which drew them, with all the strength of a river's current, toward each other.

“No, no,” she said, “if you send me away, I shall die. They frighten me; they tell me lies. My mother is dead; my father is dead. I have no one but you. You can't forsake me. You love me too much. I know you won't leave me.”

Her innocence made the recklessness of her appeal the more compelling. The beseeching, intense affection of her soul transfigured her face with an almost unearthly sweetness. White, trembling, and despairing she laid her head upon his shoulder, holding him with both arms, and swaying from the agony of a grief without hope and without tears.

“You must try to understand,” he said, “you must try. You are so young—such a child, but you do know that we can't live together, in the same house, if our marriage is not valid. That would compromise your honour. How else can I say what I must say?”

“I shouldn't mind. God would understand.”

“But the world wouldn't understand. And one has to avoid the appearance of evil.”

“They may say anything they please. I should be very proud if they misjudged me for your sake.”

Then a thought suddenly pierced her. What would they say about his honour? Would the world misjudge him? Her weakness became strength under coercion of this new possibility; her cheeks burned at the light thrown upon her first selfish impulse.

“O, why have I said such things?” she said, tearing herself away from him, “and I used to think once that women like me were too bad to live. I used to wonder how they could be so evil. That was because I had never been tempted. And now I see how hard it is—how hard to fight. It is so easy to judge others when you are married to some one you love. But I begin to understand now—I ought to hide myself in a cell and pray till I die for women who are unhappy.”

She pushed back the soft golden hair which had fallen a little over her face, brightening its sorrow. Every feature quivered under the invisible cutting hand of cruel experience. In those last sharp moments of introspection she had gained such a knowledge of suffering that a fire seemed to have consumed her vision of life, reducing it to a frightful desert of eternal woe and unavailing sacrifice. Partially stunned, and partially blinded by misery, she felt the awful helplessness and pain of what is sometimes called the second birth, a crisis in all human development when the first true realisation comes that the soul is a stranger, a rebel, strong as eternity, weak as the flesh, free as the illimitable air.

“O, I do understand!” she said. “I have been pretending to myself that we could do impossible things. But I didn't want to speak my own death-warrant. No, don't come to me. Don't say one word to me. I know so well now what must be done. We mustn't hesitate—we mustn't think. It is something to know where you can't trust yourself. I can't trust my heart at this moment. So I must just depend on the things I have been taught—things which I accepted, oh, so easily, when I applied them to other people. You must go away. You must leave me here with the servants. Esther is good and kind. PensÉe chose her for me. You can leave me with her.”

She supported herself by holding, in a desperate grasp, the heavy silk draperies by the window. The image of her, leaning against the faded scarlet curtain, tall, fragile, yet resolute, with heaving breast, closed eyes, and pallid lips, remained before him night and day for months, and though, in the process of time, the vividness of the picture waned, it lived always among his unforgettable impressions.

“You must leave me,” she said again.

“Yes, but I will come in the morning.”

“You will rest, you will try to sleep—for my sake.”

This time she lifted her head, and, turning towards him, met once more the glance which she felt must have called her to life had she been dead.

“You will come in the morning?”

“Yes.”

Once more she held out her arms. He kissed her mouth, and eyes, and hair once more. Neither could speak, and both were tearless. Then she went with him to the door, opened it, and seemed to lead the way through the long corridor, down some stone steps to the garden. She knew that he would not leave the spot while she was in sight. So she walked back to the house alone and mounted the steps, turning at each one to wave her hand. He saw her enter at last, and close the window. Then she fell and was helpless till she was found by Esther. Robert watched till the lights were lit, and for some hours after they were finally extinguished. The stars came out, and the moon made the languid night seem white with beauty. Orange walked toward the town and the small cemetery where Madame Bertin was buried. Then he threw himself by the lonely grave which held the one creature on earth whom he seemed to have a right to love without scruple and without restraint. And there he remained till daybreak, weeping.