A long, dark, panelled room, with a low flat ceiling carved with coats-of-arms and traversed with fantastic ribs. A room so large and long that a small party could only inhabit one end of it. Its age was demonstrated by the massive stone mullions of the small windows ranged along the wall on one side. There were four of these windows, each of them with three lights. Beneath each group of three was a deep, cushioned recess.

Opposite the windows were two fireplaces, the elaborately-carved black oak mantels reaching to the ceiling. In the further of these a great fire burned red and glowing, flinging out weird, suggestive half lights into the dim recesses of the chamber, and flecking with sudden gleams the multitude of curious things with which every corner was stored.

The room was very still, the air heavy with the scent of flowers; the early January darkness had fallen over the great city, but something very unlike London was in the warm, fragrant silence of this place. One of the diamond-paned casements was open, but through it came no hoarse rumble of cart or waggon. An utter peace enfolded everything. Presently the door at the near and most densely dark end of the room opened and closed softly. From behind the great embossed screen which was folded round the entrance a flash of vivid light gleamed. A man-servant emerged, carrying a large silver lamp. He traversed the whole length of the room, and set down the lamp on a black oak table with heavy claw-feet.

The circle of radiance illuminated the scene, rendering visible the mellow oil-paintings on the panelled walls, the rich Oriental rugs which covered the floor of inlaid wood, and the treasures from all parts of the globe, which were ranged in cabinets or on shelves, or lay about on brackets and tables. A grand piano stood open not far from the fire, and beyond the groups of windows, in the corner, a curtain looped back over a small arched entrance looked darkly mysterious, till the servant carried in two small lamps and set them down, revealing a fine conservatory, and accounting for the garden-like fragrance of the place.

Silently the man moved to and fro arranging various lights, daintily shaded according to the present fashion; then, stepping to the windows, he closed them, and noiselessly let fall wide curtains of Titian-like brocades shot with golden threads.

This accomplished, the general aspect of the lighted end of the room was that of sumptuous elegance, warmth, and comfort; while the shadows slowly deepening, as you gazed down towards the door, left the dark limits indefinite, and conveyed an idea of mysterious distance and gloom.

Just as the servant's arrangements were completed, a bell sounded, and he hastily left the room as he had entered it, leaving once more silence behind him. So still was it that, when the shrill notes of the dainty sunflower clock on the Louis Quatorze escritoire rang out the hour in musical chimes, it seemed to startle the Dying Gladiator as his white marble limbs drooped in the rosy radiance of the big standard lamp.

Again that door opened, away there among the shadows; and slowly up the room, in evening dress, with his crush hat, and his inevitable Neapolitan violets, came Claud Cranmer, looking about him, as if he expected to see the master of this romance-like domain. Percivale was not there, however; so, with a sigh of pleasure, Claud sank down in one of the chairs set invitingly near the wide hearth, and leaned back contentedly.

Apparently, however, solitude and firelight suggested serious thoughts, for gradually a far-off look came into the young man's eyes—a tender light which seemed to show that the object of his meditations was some person or thing lying very near his heart. Presently he leaned forward, joining his hands and resting his chin upon them; and was so completely absorbed that he did not hear Percivale, who, advancing through the conservatory, paused on the threshold, gazing at his visitor with a smile.

Reaching out for a spike of geranium bloom, he threw it with such exact aim that it struck Claud on the face, startling him so that he sprang instantly to his feet, and, facing about, caught sight of the laughing face of his assailant.

"Good shot," said Percivale, coming in. "Sorry to keep you waiting, old man."

His hands were full of lilies of the valley, which he laid down on a small table, and then saluted his guest.

"You told me to come early," said Claud.

"Yes," was the answer. "I wanted to have a talk with you before the ladies arrived."

"Delighted. What do you want to talk about?" asked Mr. Cranmer, as the two young men settled themselves in comfort.

"It is a subject I have never touched upon before," said Percivale, hesitatingly. "Not to you or any man. I hardly know why I should expect that you should listen. I have no claim on your attention. I want to talk about—myself."

"Yourself?" Claud set up with keenly awakened interest.

"Myself. It is not an interesting topic...."

Breaking off, he leaned forward, supporting his chin on his left hand as he stared at the fire. Little flames sprang up from the red mass, cast flickering lights on his serious face, and glowed in his dark blue eyes. Claud thought he had never seen so interesting a man in his life. Whether on board the Swan, in his white shirt and crimson sash, or here in these quaint London rooms of his, in modern Philistine dress-clothes, he seemed equally at home, yet equally distinguished.

Mr. Cranmer waited for what he would say—he would not break in upon his meditations.

"Have you ever," slowly he spoke at last, "have you ever given your really serious attention to the subject of marriage? I mean, in the abstract?"

Claud started, tossed his head combatively, while an eager light broke over his face.

"Yes, I have," he replied, quickly. "I have considered very few things in my life, but this I have seriously thought over."

"I am glad," said Percivale, simply. "I want to know how you regard it. What place ought marriage to take in a man's life? Is it an episode? Ought it to be left to chance? Or is it a thing to be deliberately striven and planned for as the completion of one's existence? Is happiness possible for an unmarried man?—I mean, of course, happiness in its deepest and fullest sense? Can a man whose experience of life is partial and imperfect, as a single man's must be—can he be said to be a judge at all, not having tried it in its most important aspect? What do you think?"

"I do wish," said Claud, in an irritable voice, "that you would not put your question in that way. I wish you would not follow the example of people who talk of marriage in such an absurdly generic way, as if it were a fixed state, a thing in which the symptoms must be the same in every case, like measles or scarlet fever. I have always thought the subject of marriage left remarkably little room for generalising. One marriage is no more like another than one man is like another. The Jones marriage differs essentially from the Smith, because they are the Jones, and the Smiths are the Smiths. Yet people will be absurd enough to argue that because Jones is unhappy Smith had better not try matrimony. If he were going to marry the same woman there might be a show of reason in such an argument; but even then it wouldn't follow, because he is not the same man."

Percivale's eyes were fixed on the speaker.

"I see," he said, reflectively. "Your view is that the individual side of our nature is the side which determines the success or failure of marriage."

"Certainly—especially in this age of detail. In the Middle Ages, when life was shorter, people took broader views; and, besides, they had no nerves. Any woman who was young and anything short of repulsive as to her appearance would suit your feudal baron, who would perhaps only enjoy her society for a few weeks in the intervals of following the duke to the wars, or despoiling his neighbor's frontier. When they did meet, it was among a host of servants, men-at-arms, poor relations, minstrels and retainers; they had no scope for boring each other. A man's value was enhanced in his wife's eyes when it was always an open question, as she bade him adieu, whether they ever met again in this world. Moreover, in those days the protection of a husband was absolutely necessary to a woman. Left a widow, she became, if poor, a prey for the vicious—if rich, for the designing. Eccentricities of temper must have been kept wonderfully in the background, when issues like these were almost always at stake; the broad sympathies of humanity are, generally speaking, the same. Any woman and man will be in unison on a question of life or death; but now-a-days how different! Maid, wife, or widow can inhabit a flat in South Kensington without any need of a male protector to "act the husband's coat and hat set up to drive the world-crows off from pecking in her garden"—which Romney Leigh conceived to be one, though the lowest, of a husband's duties. And your choice of a woman becomes narrowed when one cannot live in London, another will not emigrate, a third differs from you in politics, a fourth disdains all social duties, a fifth can only sit under a particular preacher, and yet another dare not be out of reach of her family doctor. Times are changed, sir. Marriage to-day depends on the individual."

"Of course it must, to a large extent; and, to meet the requirements of the age, women are now allowed to marry where they fancy, and not where they are commanded. Yet, as one looks around at the marriages one knows," continued Percivale, "there is a sameness about matrimony."

"Just so," broke in Claud, eagerly. "Because, as we look round, we see only the outside life. There is a sameness about the houses in London streets; but strip away the wall, and what a difference you will find in each! I will find you points of likeness between Rome and Manchester. Both are cities, both have houses, streets, shops, churches, passers-by, palaces, hovels. So with Jones and Smith. Both are married, both have servants, children, houses, bills, all the usual attributes of marriage. Yet you might bet with certainty that the general atmosphere of Jones' life is no more like Smith's than the air of Rome resembles the air of Manchester. It makes me quite angry," went on the young man, with heat, "to hear fools say with a smile of some young bridegroom, 'He thinks his marriage is going to turn out a different affair from anyone else's.' If he does think so, he is perfectly right. It will be different. He will have an experience all his own; but it will give him no right at all to generalize afterwards on the advantages or disadvantages of marriage in the abstract—there is no such thing as marriage in the abstract!"

"You take it to heart," said Percivale, smiling at his earnestness.

"I do. Such balderdash is talked now-a-days about it. As if you could make a code of regulations to suit everyone—the infinitely varying temperaments of nineteenth-century English people!"

"Yet we find one code of laws, broadly speaking, enough to govern all these infinite varieties."

"Precisely! Their outer lives. But happiness in marriage does seem to me to be such a purely esoteric thing. 'It's folly,' says some one, 'to marry on a small income.' I hold that no one has the least right to lay down any such thing as a general proposition. It may be the height of folly—it may be the most sensible thing in the world. Nobody can pronounce, unless they know both the parties who contemplate the step. It seems to me that, granted only the right man and woman come together, the spring of happiness is from within. I can believe in an ideal marriage—I can fancy starvation with one woman preferable to a stalled ox with any other; but it must be one woman"—again that most unwonted softness in his eyes—"a woman who shall never disappoint me, though she might sometimes vex me; who shall be as faulty as she pleases, but never base; and then—then—'I'll give up my heart to my lady's keeping,' indeed, and the stars shall fall and the angels be weeping ere I cease to love her:—a woman, mind you, an imperfect, one-sided, human thing like myself!—no abstraction, but just what I wanted to complete me—the rest of me, as it were, placed by God in the world, for me to seek out and find."

There was a complete silence in the room after this outburst. Claud, half-ashamed of his spontaneous Irish burst of sentiment, stared into the fire assiduously. Percivale's hand was over his eyes. At last he said,

"You and I think much alike; and yet——"

"Yet?"

"You want to bring your love out into the broad daylight of common life; you want to yoke her with yourself, to bear half the burden. For me, I think I would place mine above—I would stand always between her and the daily fret—she should be to me what Beatrice was to Dante: the vision of all perfection."

"You must not marry her, then," said Claud, bluntly.

"Not marry her?"

"No woman living would stand such a test. Think what marriage means! Daily life together. Your Beatrice would be obliged to come down from her pedestal. Not even your wealth could shield her from some thorns and briars; and then, when you found a mere woman with a little temper of her own instead of a goddess, you would be disillusioned."

After another pause—

"I don't agree with you," said Percivale. "I would make life such a paradise for the woman I loved that she should lead an ideal life—my experience will be, as you say, solitary. Perhaps other men's marriages will never be as mine shall. I speak with confidence, you see; because"—he rose, and stood against the mantel-piece, his head resting on his hand—"because I have seen the realization of my fancy. It is a real woman I worship, and no dream."

Claud raised his eyes, earnestly regarding the fine, enthusiastic face.

"The lady in question is greatly to be envied on most grounds," he said. "I only trust she will be able to act up to the standard of your requirements."

"My requirements? What do I require of her? Only her love! She shall have no trials, no vexations, no more loneliness, no more neglect—if only she will let me, I will make her happy!—--"

"In point of fact," said Claud very seriously, "you ask of her just what God asks of men—an undivided allegiance, a perfect faith in the wisdom of your motives, and a resignation of herself into your hands. You ask no positive virtues in her—only that she shall love you fervently; in return for which you promise her a ceaseless, tender care, and boundless happiness. It does not sound difficult; yet human beings seem to find it amazingly so; and your beloved is unfortunately human. You see one does not realize at first what love implies. No love is perfect without self-denial——"

"I require no self denial," cried Percivale.

"I tell you no two people can live together without it."

"I am going to try, nevertheless. When I have been married a year and a day, you shall own that I have illustrated your theory, and had an experience all my own!"

"Agreed," was the answer, as the honest gray eyes dwelt on the dark-blue ones with an affection which seemed tinged with a faint regret. "But will you bear to confess failure if—if by chance failure it should be?"

"There is no question of failure," was the serenely confident answer, "always provided I attain the desire of my soul. But we have strayed wide of the mark in this interesting discussion. What I really wanted to consult you about was—was the difficulty of mine." He lapsed into thought for some minutes, and seemed to be nerving himself to speak.

"I wonder," he said at last, "if it really is a difficulty, or whether I have been making mountains out of mole-hills. Or, perhaps, on the other hand, I have not considered it enough, and it may form a serious obstacle...."

Claud's attention was now thoroughly aroused.

"It is—it is—" went on Percivale faltering, "it is a family secret—of course I need not ask you to consider this conversation as strictly private?"

"Of course—of course," said Claud, hastily.

"Well—it is a secret—a secret connected with my—father." It seemed a great effort for him even to say this much. "I never opened my lips on this subject to any human being before;" he spoke nervously.

"Don't say any more, if you had rather not," urged Claud, gently.

"I want to tell you, and I may as well do it quickly. Percivale was my father's christian, not his sur-name. The sur-name was one which you would know well enough were I to mention it—it was notorious through most parts of Europe. That name was coupled with undeserved disgrace;" he paused a moment, to strengthen his voice, then resumed:

"I entreat you to believe that the disgrace was utterly undeserved. It broke his heart. He went abroad with my poor young mother; they buried themselves in a small, remote German village. There he died; and she followed him when I was born. It was believed that he committed suicide: that was also untrue; he was murdered, lest the truth should come to light. I heard all this from Dr. Wells, a clergyman who had been my father's tutor. He was a real friend—the only man to whom my father appealed in his trouble. At my birth, he took me to Schwannberg, the Castle of which my mother was heiress. She was an orphan when my father married her—twenty years younger than himself. Dr. Wells alone knew all the exact details of the whole affair. He made a statement in writing, which is in my possession, setting forth his knowledge of my father's blameless conduct and the manner of his death. I could not show you this paper without your knowing my father's name—and that, I hope, is not at present necessary. Now, to come to the point. I have always used the name of Percivale, because it was my mother's most earnest entreaty on her deathbed, that, if I lived to grow up, I should do so. I have not a relation living, so far as I know. Do you think that I should be justified in marrying without mentioning what I have told you? Should I do anyone any wrong by leaving the story untold? You will see that to half-tell it, as I have just done, would be impossible. I should have to mention names; and—and——" he dropped into a chair, covering his face with his hands.

"Dr. Wells was father and mother both to me," he said. "When his health failed, I had the Swan built that his life might be prolonged. He liked to roam from place to place in the strong sea-air. I think it did serve to keep him with me for some time. When I lost him there was no one.... He made me promise him to respect my mother's wish, and keep the name by which my father had been known a profound secret. The reasons for this are partly political. I think he was right, but I find that, from having lived so little in the world, I do not always think as others do; so I determined to consult you. Do you see any reason to drag this Cerberus to the light of day? or should you let it alone?"

Claud sat plunged in thought.

"There is no possibility of its ever getting about unless you mention it?" said he at last.

"None, so far as I can see. Even old MÜller, on my yacht, who was a servant in the house when my mother died, does not know of my father's changed name nor false accusation. No one in England of those who knew him under his own name knew of his marriage, still less that he had left a son. I have exercised the minds of all London for the past seven years, but nobody has ever guessed at anything dimly resembling the truth. Were I to proclaim aloud in society that I was the son of such a one, nobody would believe me. The secret is not a shameful one. Were I the son of a criminal, I would ask the hand of no woman without telling her friends of my case; but my father was a gentleman of high birth and stainless honor. May I not respect the silence he wished observed as to his name?"

"I think so," said Claud, with decision. "I should not even hint at there being a mystery surrounding your parentage."

"Naturally not. I must tell all or nothing."

"Then I should tell nothing. I see no reason why you should. Your father's secret is your own; I would not blazon it to the world."

"That is your deliberate opinion?"

"Certainly—my deliberate opinion. I am honored, Percivale, that you have trusted me so generously."

"I knew you were to be trusted," said Percivale, simply; then, turning his face fully towards him with a fine smile, he added—"I shall, of course, tell my wife the whole story when we are married."

"What, names and all?" said Claud anxiously.

"Names and all. I will marry no woman unless I feel that I can safely lay my life and honor in her hands."

Claud had no reply to make; in the silence which followed, the door at the obscure end of the room opened, and the servant, advancing to the borders of the lamplight, announced,

"Lady Mabel Wynch-FrÈre and Miss Brabourne."