ONE day Norma received a polite intimation from her bankers that her account was overdrawn. This had happened before but on previous occasions she had obtained from her father an advance on her allowance and the unpleasant void at the bank had been filled. Now she realised with dismay that the allowance had been cut off, and that no money could come into her possession until the payment of the half-yearly dividend from the concern in which her small private fortune was invested. She looked in her purse and found five shillings. On this she would have to live for three weeks. Her money was in the hands of trustees, wisely tied up by the worldly aunt from whom she had inherited it, so that she could not touch the capital. While she was contemplating the absurdity of the position, the maid brought up a parcel from a draper's on which there was three and eleven pence halfpenny to pay. She surrendered four of her shillings, and disconsolately regarded the miserable one that remained. The position had grown even more preposterous. She actually needed money. She had not even the amount of a cab-fare to Friary Grove. She would not have it for three weeks.

Preposterous or not, the fact was plain, and demanded serious consideration. She would have to borrow. The repayment of the loan and the overdraft would reduce the half-yearly dividend. A goodly part of the remainder would be required to meet an outstanding milliners' bill, not included in the bridal trousseau for which her father was to pay. The sum in simple arithmetic frightened her.

“I am poverty-stricken,” she said to Connie, to whom she confided her difficulties.

Connie blotted the cheque that was to provide for immediate wants, and laughed sympathetically.

“You'll have to learn to be economical, dear. I believe it's quite easy.”

“You mean I must go in omnibuses and things?” said Norma, vaguely.

“And not order so many hats and gowns.”

“I see,” said Norma, folding up the cheque.

With money again in her pocket, she felt lighter of heart, but she knew that she had stepped for a moment out of fairyland into the grey world of reality. The first experience was unpleasant. It left a haunting dread which made her cling closer to Jimmie in the embrace of their next meeting. It was a relief to get back into the Garden of Enchantment and leave sordid things outside. Wilfully she kept the conversation from serious discussion of their marriage.

When next she had occasion to go to the studio, she remembered the necessity of economy, and took the St. John's Wood omnibus. As a general rule the travellers between Baker Street station and the Swiss Cottage are of a superior class, being mostly the well-to-do residents in the neighbourhood and their visitors; but, by an unlucky chance, this particular omnibus was crowded, and Norma found herself wedged between a labouring man redolent of stale beer and bad tobacco, and a fat Jewish lady highly flavoured with musk. A youth getting out awkwardly knocked her hat awry with his elbow. It began to rain—a smart April shower. The wet umbrella of a new arrival dripped on her dress while he stood waiting for a place to be made for him opposite. The omnibus stopped at a shelterless corner, the nearest point to Friary Grove. She descended to pitiless rain and streaming pavements and a five minutes' walk, for all of which her umbrella and shoes were inadequate. She vowed miserably a life-long detestation of omnibuses. She would never enter one again. Cabs were the only possible conveyances for people who could not afford to keep their carriage. She fought down the dread that she might not be able to afford cabs. The Almighty, who had obviously intended her to drive in cabs, would certainly see that His intentions were carried out.

She arrived at the studio, wet, bedraggled, and angry; but Jimmie's exaggerated concern disarmed her. It could not have been less had she wandered for miles and been drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone. He sent Aline to fetch her daintiest slippers to replace the damp shoes, established the storm-driven sufferer in the big leathern armchair with cushions at her back and hassocks at her feet, made a roaring fire and insisted on her swallowing cherry brandy, a bottle of which he kept in the house in case of illness. In the unwonted luxury of being loved and petted and foolishly fussed over, Norma again forgot her troubles. Jimmie consoled the specific grievance by saying magniloquently that omnibuses were the engines of the devil and vehicles of the wrath to come. With a drugged economic conscience she went home in a cab. But the conscience awoke later, somewhat suffering, and she recognised that her exasperated vow had been vain. Jimmie was a poor man. She recalled to mind his words on the night of their engagement, and apprehended their significance. The trivial incident of the omnibus was a key. The abandonment of cabs and carriages meant the surrender of countless luxuries that went therewith. Her own two hundred a year would not greatly raise the scale of living. She was to be a poor man's wife; would have to wear cheap dresses, eat plain food, keep household books in which pennies were accounted for; hers would be the humdrum existence of the less prosperous middle class. The first pang of doubt frightened her for a while and left her ashamed. Noble revolt followed. Had she not renounced the pomps and vanities of a world which she scorned? Had not this wonderful baptism of love brought New Birth? She had been reborn, a braver, purer woman; she had been initiated into life's deeper mysteries; her soul had been filled with joy. Of what count were externals?

The next evening Connie Deering gave a small dinner-party in honour of the two engagements. Old Colonel Pawley, charged under pain of her perpetual displeasure not to reveal the secret of Norma's whereabouts, was invited to balance the sexes. He was delighted to hear of Norma's romantic marriage.

“I can still present the fan,” he said, rubbing his soft palms together; “but I'm afraid I shall have to write a fresh set of verses.”

“You had better give Norma a cookery-book,” laughed Connie.

“I have a beautiful one of my own in manuscript which no publisher will take up,” sighed Colonel Pawley.

Norma, who had been wont to speak with drastic contempt of the amiable old warrior, welcomed him so cordially that he was confused. He was not accustomed to exuberant demonstrations of friendship from the beautiful Miss Hardacre. At dinner, sitting next her, he enjoyed himself enormously. Instead of freezing his geniality with sarcastic remarks, she lured him on to the gossip in which his heart delighted. When Connie rallied her, later, on her flirtation with the old man, she laughed.

“Remember I've been a prisoner here. He's one of the familiar faces from outside.”

Although jestingly, she had spoken with her usual frankness, and her confession was more deeply significant than she was aware at the time. She had welcomed Colonel Pawley not for what he was, but for what he represented. As soon as she was alone she realised the moral lapse, and rebuked herself severely. She was sentimental enough to hang by a ribbon around her neck the simple engagement ring which Jimmie had given her, and to sleep with it as a talisman against evil thoughts.

She spent the following evening at the studio, heroically enduring the discomforts of the detested omnibus. When she descended she drew a breath of relief, but felt the glow that comes from virtuous achievement. Jimmie was informed of this practice in the art of economy. He regarded her wistfully. There were times when he too fought with doubts,—not of her loyalty, but of his own honesty in bringing her down into his humble sphere. Even now, accustomed as he was to the adored sight of her there, he could not but note the contrast between herself and her surroundings. She brought with her in every detail of her person, in every detail of her dress, in every detail of her manner, an atmosphere of a dainty, luxurious life pathetically incongruous with the shabby little house. He had not even the wherewithal to call in decorators and upholsterers and make the little house less shabby. So when she spoke of practising economy, he looked at her wistfully.

“Your eyes are open, dear, are n't they?” he said. “You really do realise what a sacrifice you are making in marrying me?”

“By not marrying you,” she replied, “I should have gained the world and lost my own soul. Now I am doing the reverse.”'

He kissed her finger-tips lover-wise. “I am afraid I must be the devil's advocate, and say that the loss and gain need not be so absolutely differentiated. I want you to be happy. My God! I want you to be happy,” he burst out with sudden passion, “and if you found that things were infinitely worse than what you had expected, that you had married me in awful ignorance—”

She covered his lips with the palm of her hand.

“Don't go on. You pain me. You make me despise myself. I have counted the cost, such as it is. Did I not tell you from the first that I would go with you in rags and barefoot through the world? Could woman say more? Don't you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you,” he replied, bowing his head. “You are a great-hearted woman.”

She unfastened her hat, skewered it through with the pins, and gave it him to put down.

“I remember my Solomon,” she said, trying to laugh lightly, for there had been a faint but disconcerting sense of effort in her protestation. “'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred there with.' Besides, you forget another important matter. I am now a homeless, penniless outcast. I am not sacrificing anything. It is very kind of you to offer to take me in and shelter me.”

“These are sophistries,” said Jimmie, with a laugh. “You gave up all on my account.”

“But I am really penniless,” she said, ignoring his argument. “Anch' io son pittore. I too have felt the pinch of poverty.”

“You?”

She revealed her financial position—the overdraft at the bank, the shilling between herself and starvation. Were it not for Connie, she would have to sing in the streets. She alluded thoughtlessly, with her class's notions as to the value of money, to her “miserable two hundred a year.”

“Two hundred a year!” cried Jimmie. “Why, that's a fortune!”

His tone struck a sudden chill through her. He genuinely regarded the paltry sum as untold riches. She struggled desperately down to his point of view.

“Perhaps it may come in useful for us,” she said lamely.

“I should think it will! Why did n't you tell me before?”

“Have you never thought I might have a little of my own?” she asked with a touch of her old hardness.

“No,” said Jimmie. “Of course not.”

“I don't see any 'of course' in the matter. The ordinary man would have speculated—it would have been natural—almost common-sense.”

Jimmie threw up his hands deprecatingly.

“I have been too much dazzled by the glorious gift of yourself to think of anything else you might bring. I am an impossible creature, as you will find out. I ought to have considered the practical side.”

“Oh! I am very glad you did n't!” she exclaimed. “Heaven forbid you should have the mercenary ideas of the average man. It is beautiful to have thought of me only.”

“I am afraid I was thinking of myself, my dear,” said he. “I must get out of the way of it, and think of the two of us. Now let us be severely business-like. You have taken a load off my mind. There are a thousand things you can surround yourself with that I imagined you would lack.” He took her two hands and swung them backwards and forwards. “Now I shan't regard myself as such a criminal in asking you to marry me.”

“Do you think two hundred a year a fortune, Jimmie?” she asked.

“To the Rothschilds and Vanderbilts perhaps not—but everything is relative.”

“Everything?”

Her heart spoke suddenly, demanding relief. Their eyes met.

“No, dear,” he said. “One thing at least is absolute.” An interlude of conviction succeeded doubt. She felt that she had never loved him so much as at that moment. It was more with the quickly lit passion of the awakened woman than with the ardour of a girl that she clasped her hands round his head and drew it down to their kiss. She had an awful need of the assurance of the absolute.

It nerved her to face a discussion on ways and means with Aline, whom Jimmie at her request summoned from demure sewing in her little drawing-room.

“You are right,” she had said, referring to his former remark. “We ought to be severely business-like. I must begin to learn things. You don't know how hopelessly ignorant I am.”

Aline came down to give the first lesson in elementary housekeeping. She brought with her a pile of little black books which she spread out at the end of the long table. The two girls sat side by side. Jimmie hovered about them for a while, but was soon dismissed by Aline to a distant part of the studio, where, having nothing wherewith to occupy himself, he proceeded to make a charcoal sketch of the two intent faces.

Aline, proud at being able to display her housewifely knowledge before appreciative eyes, opened her books, and expounded them with a charming business air. These were the receipts for the last twelve months; these the general disbursements. They were balanced to a halfpenny.

“Of course anything I can't account for, I put down to the item 'Jimmie,'” she said naively. “He will go to the money-drawer and help himself without letting me know. Is n't it tiresome of him?”

Norma smiled absently, wrinkling her brows over the unfamiliar figures. She had no grasp of the relation the amounts of the various items bore to one another, but they all seemed exceedingly small.

“I suppose it's necessary to make up this annual balance?” she asked.

“Of course. Otherwise you would n't know how much you could apportion to each item. Jimmie says it's nonsense to keep books; but if you listen to Jimmie, you 'll have the brokers in in a month.”

“Brokers?”

Aline laughed at her perplexed look. “Yes, to seize the furniture in payment of debt.”

The main financial facts having been stated, Aline came to detail. These were the weekly books from the various tradesmen. She showed a typical week's expenditure.

“What about the fishmonger?” asked Norma, noting an obvious omission.

“Fish is too expensive to have regularly,” Aline explained, “and so I don't have an account. When I buy any, I pay for it at once, in the shop.”

“When you buy it?”

“Why, yes. You'll find it much better to go and choose things for yourself than let them call for orders. Then you can get exactly what you want, instead of what suits the tradesman's convenience. You see, I go to the butcher and look round, and say 'I want a piece of that joint,' and of course he does as he's told. It seems horrid to any one not accustomed to it to go into a butcher's shop, I know; but really it's not unpleasant, and it's quite amusing.”

“But why should n't your housekeeper do the marketing?”

“Oh, she does sometimes,” Aline admitted; “but Hannah is n't a good buyer. She can't judge meat and things, you know, and she is apt to be wasteful over vegetables.”

“You don't bring the—the meat and things—home with you in a basket, do you?” asked Norma, with a nervous laugh.

Jimmie, interested in his sketch, had not listened to the conversation, which had been carried on in a low tone. The last words, however, pitched higher, caught his ear. He jumped to his feet.

“Norma carry home meat in a basket! Good God! What on earth has the child been telling you?”

“I never said anything of the kind, Jimmie,” cried Aline, indignantly. “You needn't bring home anything unless you like; our tradesmen are most obliging.”

Norma pushed back her chair from the table and rose and again laughed nervously.

“I am afraid I can't learn all the science of domestic economy in one lesson. I must do it by degrees.” She passed her hand across her forehead. “I'm not used to figures, you see.”

Jimmie looked reproachfully at Aline. “Those horrid little black books!” he exclaimed. “They are enough to give any one a headache. For heaven's sake, have nothing to do with them, dear.”

“But the brokers will come in,” said Norma, with an uncertain catch in her voice.

“They are Aline's pet hobgoblins,” laughed Jimmie. “My dear child,” pointing to the books, “please take those depressing records of wasted hours away.”

When they were alone, he said to Norma very tenderly, “I am afraid my little girl has frightened you.”

She started at the keenness of his perception and flushed.

“No—not frightened.”

“She is so proud of the way she runs her little kingdom here,” he said; “so proud to show you how it is done. You must forgive her. She is only a child, my dearest, and forgets that these household delights of hers may come as shocks to you. I shall not allow you to have these worries that she loves to concern her head about.”

“Then who will have them?” she asked, with her hand on the lapel of his jacket. “You? That would be absurd. If I am your wife, I must keep your house.”

“My dear,” said Jimmie, kissing her, “if we love each other, there will be no possibility of worries. I believe in God in a sort of way, and He has not given you to me to curse and wither your life.”

“You could only bless and sanctify it,” she murmured.

“Not I, dear; but our love.”

Soothed, she raised a smiling face.

“But still, I'll have to keep house. Do you think I would let you go to the butcher's? What would Aline say if you made such a proposal?”

“She would peremptorily forbid him to take my orders,” he replied, laughing.

“I am sure I should,” she said.

It was growing late. She glanced at the wheezy tilted old Dutch clock in the corner, and spoke of departure. She reflected for a moment on the means of home-getting. To her lowered spirits the omnibus loomed like a lumbering torture-chamber. The consolation of a cab seemed cowardice. An inspiration occurred to her. She would walk; perhaps he would accompany her to Bryanston Square. He was enraptured at the suggestion. But could she manage the distance?

“I should like to try. I am a good walker—and when we are outside,” she added softly, “we can talk a little of other matters.”

It was a mild spring night, and the quiet stars shone benignantly upon them as they walked arm in arm, and talked of “other matters.” As she had needed a little while before the assurance of the absolute, so now she craved the spirituality of the man himself, the inner light of faith in the world's beauty, the sweetness, the courage—all that indefinable something in him which raised him, and could alone raise her, above the terrifying things of earth. She clung to his arm in a pathos of yearning for him to lead her upward and teach her the things of the spirit. Only thus lay her salvation.

He, clean, simple soul, lost in the splendour of their love, expounding, as it chanced, his guileless philosophy of life and his somewhat childishly pagan religious convictions, was far from suspecting the battle into which he was being called to champion the side of righteousness. He went to sleep that night the most blissfully happy of men. Norma lay awake, a miserable woman.