So Yvonne was married, and for six months was completely happy. Fulminster and the county entertained her, and she entertained Fulminster and the county. Her husband petted her and relieved her of serious responsibilities. She won the hearts of Mrs. Dirks the housekeeper, of Jordan the gardener, and Fletcher the coachman, three autocrats in their respective spheres of influence—victories whereby she controlled the menu, filled the house with whatever flowers struck her fancy, and had out the horses at the moment of her caprice. Her quick wit soon obtained a grasp upon domestic affairs and her headship in the household was a practical fact which the Canon proudly recognised. Her social duties she performed with the tact born of simplicity. Mrs. Winstanley went away raging after her first dinner-party. She had expected a consoling proof of incapacity and had witnessed a little triumph of hostess-ship.

Not a cloud had appeared on her horizon since the wedding-day, when they had started upon a magic month in Italy, among blue lakes and bluer skies and gorgeous pictures and marble palaces. After that, there had been the excitement of home-coming, the fluttering sweetness of taking possession, the bewildering succession of fresh faces in her drawing-room, the long drives to return calls, and to attend parties in her honour. The new duties interested her. She revelled in an infants’ class at the Sunday school, which she instructed in a theology undreamed of by the Fathers. She sang at local concerts. She dressed herself in dainty raiment to please her husband’s eye. In fact she made a study of his Æsthetic tastes from food to music, and delighted in gratifying them. With feminine pliancy she strove to adapt her moods to his. His face became a book which she loved to read when they met after a few hours’ absence; and, according to what she read, she became demure, or gay, or businesslike. In her leisure hours she sang to herself, read French novels, which she obtained in unlimited supply from London, and sought the society of Sophia Wilmington and her brother, who quickly constituted themselves her chief friends and advisers in Fulminster. Often she sat idle and gave herself up to dreamy contemplation of her beatitude.

In these moods comparisons would arise between her two marriages, and between the two men. Scenes, almost forgotten during the years of her widowhood, revived in her memory. Phases of present wedded relations brought back vividly analogous phases in the past. The contrast sometimes produced an emotion that seemed too great for self-containment, and she longed to open her heart to her husband. But she dared not. Love might have broken down barriers, but not the grateful, respectful affection she bore the Canon. Besides, beyond one little talk, two years ago, at the house of Stephen’s mother during her last illness, no mention had been made between them of AmÉdÉe Bazouge.

Man-like, he preferred to dismiss the circumstance from his mind as unpleasant. But the woman found pleasure in remembering, and in using the contrasts to heighten her present happiness.

Thus for six months she had known no trouble, and had laughed at her old tremulous misgivings as to her capacity for filling her present position.

Suddenly, one afternoon in early June, as they were sitting in the shadow of the old Abbey, cast across half the lawn, the Canon laid down the review he was reading by the foot of his chair, and, deliberately folding his gold pince-nez and thrusting it in his waistcoat, looked at her and said, “Yvonne.”

She closed “Le Petit Bob” with a snap, and became dutiful and smiling attention.

“I have something to say to you,” he remarked gravely; “something perhaps painful—about certain possible little changes in our lives.”

“Changes?” echoed Yvonne blankly.

“Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some months past. I think, dear, you ought to be more serious, and give me greater help than you have done hitherto. Do you follow me?”

If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly been transformed into a Sahara, and the golden laburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar of fire, she could not have been more bewildered. But she felt a horrible pain, as from a stab, and the tears started to her eyes.

“No. Not at all—what is it?”

“I don’t wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. I am only speaking from a sense of duty. Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough.”

“But what is it? What is it?” she repeated piteously. “What have I done to displease you?”

He took up his parable, with crossed legs and joined finger tips, and in a quiet, unemotional voice catalogued her failings. She was not sufficiently alive to the deeper responsibilities of her position. Many parochial duties that devolved upon the Rector’s wife, she had left undone. She took no pains to improve her acquaintance with doctrinal and ecclesiastical affairs.

“I am not exaggerating,” he said, “for you did tell the Sunday-school children that St. John the Baptist was present at the Crucifixion, Yvonne, did n’t you?”

He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his charges; but Yvonne’s face was fixed in tragic dismay, and the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

He rose and advanced to her with outstretched arms. She obeyed his suggestion mechanically and allowed herself to stand in his embrace.

“It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne,” he said gently. “And you will think over it, I know. You must n’t be hurt, little wife.”

But she was—to the depths of her heart. “I did n’t know you were not pleased with me,” she said with trembling lip. “I thought I was doing my very best to make you happy.”

“And you have, my child—very happy.”

“Oh no—I have n’t. I will try to do what you want, Everard. But I told you I was n’t fit for you—I can do nothing, nothing but just sing a little. But I will try Everard. Forgive me.”

“Freely, freely, dearest,” said the magnanimous man, patting her on the shoulder. “There, there,” he added, kissing her forehead. “It pained me intensely to say what I did. But if duties were always pleasant, it would be a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes and smile, Yvonne. And come and play my accompaniment for a few minutes before dinner.”

He drew her arm within his and led her into the house, through the open French window, talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne’s nature to show resentment. She fell outwardly into his humour, and thanked him sweetly for his somewhat exaggerated attentions in arranging the piano and music; but as she played, the notes became blurred.

“A little out there,” he said, standing behind her, his violin under his chin. “Let us go back four bars.”

She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to keep back the tears that would come and render the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a black note, as she was bending her head towards the music-book. The Canon stopped short and laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano.

“My dearest,” he exclaimed, stooping over her. “It is all over. Don’t be unhappy. I did not mean to be unkind to you. I am afraid I was. It is I who am not fit for so tender and sensitive a nature.”

He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat and let her cry upon his shoulder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had been brutal. A man must be as hard as Mephistopheles not to experience this sensation the first time he makes a woman cry. The second or third time he calls his attitude firmness; afterwards he characterises her conduct as unreasonable. A wise woman makes the very most of the first tears of her married life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. She dried her eyes as fast as she could, and felt ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed them in eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing that the Canon desired her to be her old self, for that evening at any rate, did her best to humour him.

After this, her life went on, not unhappily, but unlifted by the buoyancy of the first six months. Her illusions had been shattered. The spontaneity of her actions was checked. They became little tasks, whose excellence she could not judge until the Canon had pronounced upon them. She made prodigious efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with success. Others, such as attempts at parish organisation, failed. Mrs. Winstanley, like Betsy Jane in Artemus Ward’s book, would not be reorganised. The Canon intervened, but his cousin stood firm, and at last he had to yield. In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. If she had carried her own charming insouciance into working homes, she would have won all hearts. But, morbidly conscious of the responsibilities of her position, she judged it her duty to cast frivolity from her and to put on the serious dignity of the Rector’s wife, which fitted her as easily as a suit of armour. As for theology, she read with a zeal only equalled by her incapacity of appreciating the drift of the science. To the end of her days Yvonne could see no other difference between a Churchman and a Dissenter, except that one had a pretty service and the other a dull one. So closely, however, did she pursue her studies that the Canon took pity on her, and came back from London one day with “Gyp’s” latest production in his pocket. It would have done an archbishop good to see the gleam of pleasure in Yvonne’s eyes.

Six more months passed, and Yvonne began to weary of the strain of self-improvement. The sterner side of the Canon’s character showed itself in a hundred little ways. Small censurings became frequent, praise difficult to obtain. With the Canon’s gracious consent, she despatched at last an invitation to Geraldine, who had already paid her a visit in the spring. But that was in the days of her happiness.

Geraldine came, and her keen wit very soon penetrated the situation. Yvonne had been too loyal to complain.

“You’ve just got to tell me all about it,” she said in her determined fashion.

It was their first evening, after dinner, as soon as the Canon had gone down to his library.

“All about what, Dina?” asked Yvonne.

“Oh, don’t pretend not to know. You were as happy as a bird when I was here last, and now you don’t open your mouth.”

“I think I want a change,” said Yvonne. “I am getting too respectable. At first, you see, everything was new, and now I have got used to it. I think if I could run about London by myself for a month, and sing at lots of concerts, it would do me good. And oh, Dina—I should so much like to hear a man say ‘damn’ again!”

“Well, I’m not a man, but I’ ll say it for you—damn, damn, damn. Now do you feel better?”

“Oh, you look so funny as you say it!” cried Yvonne, with a laugh. “I wish it was something artistic and you could teach it to the Canon.”

“It strikes me, if I were to set about it, I could teach the Canon a good many things. First of all, what a treasure he has got—which he does n’t seem quite aware of.”

“Oh, Dina, you mustn’t say that,” said Yvonne, looking shocked. “He is all kindness and indulgence—really, dear. If I feel dull, it is because I am wicked and hanker after frivolous things—Van, for instance, and a comic song. Do you know you have n’t once spoken about Van?”

“Oh, don’t talk of Van,” said Miss Vicary; “I am getting tired of him. He never knows his mind three days together. If I was n’t a fool I would give him up for good and all.”

“But why don’t you marry and make an end of it?” asked Yvonne. “I don’t understand.”

“Ask Van. Don’t ask me. There’s somebody else now. Elsie Carnegie, of all people.”

“Poor Dina.”

“Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break her heart over Van’s infidelities. I’m quite content as I am. Only I’m a fool—there! I ’ve never told you I was a fool before, Yvonne. That’s because you are so sedate and respectable. I’m getting to venerate you.”

“I should like to talk to him seriously about it—for his good.”

“Oh, heavens, my child, he’d be falling in love with you again and having the whole artillery of the Church about his ears!” Yvonne laughed gaily. The talk was doing her good. Geraldine’s forcible phraseology was a tonic after the politer accents of Fulminster. They drifted away unconsciously from the main subject upon which they had started. Geraldine had many things to tell of the doings in the musical world.

“Oh, I wish I was back for a little,” cried poor Yvonne. “Singing in a amateur way is not like singing professionally, is it?”

“I think you are better where you are,” replied Geraldine, seriously, “in spite of all things. It is no use being discontented.”

“Not a bit,” sighed Yvonne. She was silent for a little, and then she turned round to Geraldine.

“I don’t think you would do very well married, Dina. You are too independent. A woman has to give in so much, you know; and do so much pretending, which you could never do.”

“And why pretend?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You have to—in lots of things. I suppose we women were born for it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings, and they expect us to have the same, and we have n’t, Dina; and yet they would be hurt and miserable if we told them so—so we have to pretend.”

Geraldine looked at her with an expression of pain on her strong face, and then she bent down—Yvonne was on a low stool by her side—and flung her arms about her.

“Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to God you could have loved a man—and married him! That is happiness—no need of pretending. I knew it once—years ago. It only lasted a few months, for he died before we announced our marriage—no one has ever known. Only you, now, dear. Try and love your husband, dear—give him your soul and passion. It is the only thing I can tell you to help you, dear. Then all the troubles will go. Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently—they say it is a woman’s greatest curse. It is n’t; it is the greatest blessing of God on her.”

“You are speaking as men have spoken,” replied Yvonne, in a whisper, holding her friend’s hand tightly. “I never knew before—but God will never bless me—like that.”