Clare was greatly excited. She regarded it as a great triumph that she had prevailed upon Mr. Westwood to write the book which was to give an account of his captivity in Central Africa, his explorations—some of them involuntary—for the people among whom he dwelt as a prisoner and an object of worship, carried him about with them on their raids—and his discoveries. She was, however, in great dread lest her part in the compact should be indifferently performed.

She daily expressed her doubts to Agnes, bewailing the fact that she had been too easily persuaded by the maestro to abandon her study of the art of painting for the art of vocalism. If she had only devoted to the former the time she had spent upon the latter, she would have been a good artist, she declared. Of what value had her singing been to her, she inquired in doleful tones. It had been of no use to her, but if she had continued her study of drawing, she should not now be on the fair way to humiliation.

Agnes did her best to reassure her, when she had seen her portfolio of water colour sketches—some of them charming open-air studies and others of the picturesque peasantry of the Biscayan provinces. She felt sure, she said, that if her drawings done by the direction of Mr. Westwood, were of the same quality as those in the portfolio, the publishers would be quite satisfied with them. Clare kissed her friend a dozen times in acknowledgment of her kind encouragement, but afterwards she shook her head despondently.

“It is one thing to draw for my own amusement—to make these simple records of the places which I have visited and the people I hove seen, but quite another thing to illustrate a serious book—a book that is worth twenty-five thousand pounds. Just think of it! My drawings in a book that is worth such a sum—a book that will be in everybody's hands in the course of a month or two!” she cried, as she paced the room excitedly. “Oh yes; I know what every one will say: It would be far better if so valuable a book had not had its pages disfigured by such amateurish efforts! Oh yes; I have seen the criticisms in the English papers. I know what they will say. Oh, what a fool I was to agree to do the drawings!”

“I don't think that you need be at all afraid to face such a task,” said Agnes. “But if you are, why not write to Mr. Westwood, telling him that you repent?”

“Oh, I would be far more afraid to face him after that than to face the drawings,” cried the girl.

“What would Mr. Westwood think of any one who would break a compact?”

Agnes looked at her in silence for a few moments. She was tempted to tell Clare the full story of the compact which she had once made with that man, and the way in which he had broken it, ignoring the fact that it had ever been entered into by either of them. She felt tempted to ask her if the susceptibilities of such a man on the subject of compacts—especially those made with women—were to be greatly respected; but she controlled herself, and when Clare sat down with tearful eyes, she did her best to comfort her.

Then Claude went to London and had an interview of a very satisfactory character with Messrs. Shekels & Shackles. All that they stipulated was that he should not give himself away—the phrase was Mr. Shekels'—at the Royal Geographical Society. The papers read by distinguished—travellers—and some who were not quite so distinguished—at the big meetings of the Society, were only designed to stimulate the imagination of the public and prepare the way for the forthcoming book. A paper that discounted any portion of the forthcoming book—Mr. Shekels took it for granted that the book was always forthcoming—was worse than futile for advertising purposes He urged upon Mr. Westwood the advisability of putting nothing into his Geographical Society lecture that the newspapers could not lay hold of for the purposes of leading articles. The newspapers did not want pathological erudition. They wanted something that all their readers could understand—something about cannibalism, for example; cannibalism as a topic never failed to attract general readers. He hoped that Mr. Westwood would see his way to talk about the cannibals of Central Africa in his paper. That would tickle the palates of the general public, causing them to look forward to the book, which need not necessarily contain a single allusion to cannibalism. In one word, Mr. Shekels explained that the lecture should be a kind of hors d'ouvre to the literary banquet which was to follow.

All this he explained to Mr. Westwood, very tenderly, of course, for Mr. Westwood was (unfortunately, Messrs. Shekels & Shackles thought) not like the majority of distinguished explorers, anxious that the sale of his book should be enormous, being (unfortunately, again,) independent of book-writing for his living. If they were to say anything to hurt his feelings, he might take his book, when he had it written, to another publishing house, who then would have the privilege, so earnestly sought after by Messrs. Shekles & Shackles, of losing a considerable sum by its publication.

On the subject of the illustrating of the book Mr. Shackles—he was the artistic, not the business partner—had a good deal to say. He did not smile when Mr. Westwood mentioned that there was a lady of his acquaintance who would execute the drawings under his own supervision. No, Mr. Westwood was well out of the front door before he had a laugh with his partner, who did not laugh but only winked at the notion of Mr. Westwood's lady friend. But while Mr. Westwood was in his room Mr. Shackles explained quite courteously that he should like to see some of the lady's work, so that he should be in a position to judge as to whether or not it lent itself well to the processes of reproduction. That was how Mr. Shackles gave expression, when face to face with Mr. Westwood, of the doubts which he afterwards formulated in a few well-chosen phrases to his partner as to the artistic—the saleably artistic—possibilities of the unnamed lady's work.

Then Mr. Westwood had an interview with the executive of the Royal Geographical Society on the subject of his lecture; and the next day every newspaper in the kingdom contained a paragraph announcing this fact, and most of them had half-column leading articles commenting upon the decision come to by the explorer, and pointing out that, owing to the extraordinary circumstances connected with his involuntary stay in the interior of the Dark Continent, the paper which he had so courteously placed at the disposal of the Society could scarcely fail to be the most interesting, as well as the most important, given to the world through the same body for many years.

It was with great trepidation that Clare submitted her sketches to Mr. Westwood. He had, of course, to pay another visit to The Knoll in order to make a choice of the works to be sent to Mr. Shackles as specimens; and even when Claude had expressed himself confident that Mr. Shackles would be surprised at the high quality of the technique in those he selected, the girl was not reassured. It was not till Claude had shown her the publishers' letter regarding the drawings—another visit had to be paid to The Knoll in order to show her this letter—that she began to regain confidence in herself. Her face was rosy with pleasure before Claude had finished reading the letter.

The fact was that Messrs. Shekels & Shackles had come to the decision that they would be acting wisely in humouring Mr. Westwood in this matter of illustrations; and seeing that the specimens of Miss Tristram's work were susceptible of being improved by a judicious artist accustomed to manipulate such work as was to be reproduced by certain processes, the letter on the subject had been as nearly enthusiastic as Messrs. Shekels & Shackles ever allowed themselves to become in the presence of their typewriter. They had meant to gratify Mr. Westwood, and the reply which they got from him convinced them that their object was achieved.

For the next week Clare spent her days in the greenhouse, making sketches of all the tropical plants in Agnes's collection. From studying the general character ol the illustrations in several volumes of African travel—Agnes had on her shelves every volume of exploration in the Continent—the girl became aware of the fact that the public will not believe that any drawing is offered to them in good faith unless it contains at least one tropical plant with which they are familiar. She made up her mind that the vegetation in her pictures should be plentiful, however far short it might fall in artistic qualities. This was the week during which Claude was occupied in the preparation of his paper for the Geographical Society; but in spite of his being so busy, he found time to pay more than one visit to The Kroll. His were business visits, he was careful to explain. Yes, it was necessary for him to see that the backgrounds sketched by Clare at least suggested the tropics.

Agnes stood by while he made his suggestions at these times, and when, now and again, she was applied to for an opinion on some point on which the others could not make up their mind, she gave her opinion—that was all the part she took in the transaction. She was beginning to be weary of the vegetation of the tropics and its adaptability to pictorial treatment, though for some years of her life she had passed no day without reading a page or two that had some bearing upon Central Africa. She was startled as she reflected upon the change that had taken place in her views during a fortnight. She never wished to see another book on Central Africa. She could not even do more than pretend to take an interest in the book which Claude was about to write and Clare to illustrate.

Once as she heard him describe to the girl a scene which he thought she should be prepared to deal with in a picture, her mind went back to the nights when she had awaked shrieking from a dream in which she had seen him lying dead in the midst of the savages who had massacred him and his companions. She had had such dreams frequently during the months when the newspapers were writing their comments upon the disappearance of Westwood and his expedition. How feeble and colourless would be the most spirited of Clare's illustrations compared to those dreams! She smiled as she recalled some of them. She wondered how it was possible for her ever to have taken so much interest in African exploration It was certainly not a subject that many girls would pass several years of their life trying to master.

Often when she glanced across the room and saw Claude there she asked herself if it was possible that she still loved him.

She could not answer the question. Her love for him had become so much a part of her life she could not imagine living without it. She wondered if women could continue loving men who had treated them as he had treated her. When she thought over his treatment of her she wondered how it was that she did not hate him. She had heard of love turning to hatred—hatred as immortal as love—and yet it did not appear to her that she had such a feeling in regard to him. She seemed to have settled down into her life under its altered conditions as easily and as uncomplainingly as it she had always looked forward to life under such conditions.

It was on the eve of Claude Westwood's departure for London to appear before the Geographical Society, that Clare sat down to the piano. She had latterly neglected her singing in favour of her drawing, and now only opened the piano at the request of Agnes.

“What shall I sing?” she cried. “I feel just now as if I could make a great success at La Scala—I feel that my nerves are strung to the highest pitch possible, though why I should be so is a mystery to me. It is not I who have to appear in that big hall to-morrow evening, and yet I feel as if I were about to make my dÉbut.”

She ran her fingers up and down the keys, improvising a succession of chords that sounded like a march of triumph.

“I want to sing something like that—something with trumpets in it,” she said, with a laugh. “I feel in a mood for trumpets and drums. You heard what Mr. Westwood said about the musical instruments of the Gakennas—that awful drum made of rhinoceros hide pared down and stretched between two branches? What an awful instrument of torture!”

“Shocking, indeed—nearly as bad as a pianoforte under incompetent hands—probably worse than a brass orchestra made in Germany,” said Agnes. “Don't let your song be dominated by any influence less cultured than Chopin.”

Clare went on improvising, but gradually the notes of triumph became less pronounced, and the modulation was in a minor key. In a short time the random fancies assumed a definite form; but it was probably the chance playing of a few notes that suggested to her the exquisite “Nightingale” theme, so splendidly worked out by her master—the greatest of all Italians.

“You and I, you and I,

Sisters are we, O nightingale.

On the wings of song we fly—

On the wings of song we sail;

When our feathered pinions fail,

Floats a feather of song on high

Light as thistledown in a gale.

You and I the heaven will scale;

For only song can reach the sky.

Only the song of the nightingale;

And we are sisters, you and I.”

She fled away on the wings of the exquisite song, startling Agnes with the passion which she imparted to every note—a passion that waxed greater with every phrase until at the close of the stanza it became overwhelming. The music of the moon is embodied in every note, though the master was too artistic to make any attempt to reproduce the nightingale's song. He knew that no such attempt could ever approach success; but he knew that it was within the scope of his art to produce upon the mind the same effect as is produced by the song of the nightingale, and this effect he achieved.

Agnes listened with surprise at first, for the girl had never sung with such abandon before; but at the plaintive second stanza—the music illustrated another effect of the bird's singing—she half-closed her eyes, and gave herself up to the delight of listening. At the third stanza—Love Triumphant, the composer had called it—she became more amazed than before. The theme takes the form of a duet, as the scena was originally arranged by the composer, and now it actually appeared to Agnes as if the tenor part was being sung as well as the soprano, in the room—no, not in the room, but in the distance—outside the house.

She raised her head and listened eagerly. There could be no doubt about it—some one was singing at the window the tenor part of the duet.