Love Eternal: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

MR. KNIGHT AND DUTY

The pair returned to Kleindorf by the evening diligence, and among the
passengers was that same priest who had been their companion on the
day of Godfrey's arrival. As usual he was prepared to be bellicose,
and figuratively, trailed the tails of his coat before his ancient
enemy. But the Pasteur would not tread on them. Indeed, so mild and
conciliatory were his answers that at last the priest, who was a good
soul at bottom, grew anxious and inquired if he were ill.

"No, no," said a voice from the recesses of the dark coach, "Monsieur
le Pasteur has come into money. Oh, I have heard!"

"Is it so? Now I understand," remarked the priest with a sniff, "I
feared that he had lost his health."

Then they arrived at Kleindorf, and the conversation ended with mutual
bows.

Great was the excitement of Madame and Juliette at the news which they
brought with them. To their ears Godfrey's inheritance sounded a tale
of untold wealth, nearly 300,000 francs! Why, they did not know anyone
in the neighbourhood of Kleindorf who owned so much. And then that
fine house, with its gardens and lovely furniture, which was the talk
of Lucerne. And the Pasteur with his 5,000 francs clear to be paid
immediately, plus an income of 2,500 for the next eight years. Here
were riches indeed. It was wonderful, and all after an acquaintance of
only a few months. They looked at Godfrey with admiration. Truly he
must be a remarkable youth who was thus able to attract the love of
the wealthy.

An idea occurred to Madame. Why should he not marry Juliette? She was
vivacious and pretty, fit in every way to become a great lady, even
perhaps to adorn the lovely Villa Ogilvy in future years. She would
have a word with Juliette, and show her where fortune lay. If the girl
had any wit it should be as good as assured, for with her
opportunities----

And so, doubtless, it might have chanced had it not been for a certain
determined and unconventional young woman far away in England, of whom
the persistent memory, however much he might flirt, quite prevented
Godfrey from falling in love, as otherwise he ought to, and indeed,
probably must have done at his age and in his circumstances.

Perhaps Miss Juliette, who although young was no fool, also had ideas
upon the subject, at any rate at this time, especially as she had
found /l'Hibou/ always attractive, notwithstanding his star-gazing
ways, and the shower of wealth that had descended on him as though
direct from the /Bon Dieu/, did not lessen his charms. If so, who
could blame her? When one has been obliged always to look at both
sides of a sou and really pretty frocks, such as ladies wear, are
almost as unobtainable as Godfrey's stars, money becomes important,
especially to a girl with an instinct for dress and a love of life.

Thenceforward, at least, as may be imagined, Monsieur Godfrey became a
very prominent person indeed in the Boiset establishment. All his
little tastes were consulted; Madame moved him into the best spare
bedroom, on the ground that the one he occupied would be cold in
winter, which, when he was out, Juliette made a point of adorning with
flowers if these were forthcoming, or failing them with graceful
sprays of winter berries. Also she worked him some slippers covered
with little devils in black silk, which she said he must learn to
tread under foot, though whether this might be a covert allusion to
his spiritualistic experiences or merely a flight of fancy on her
part, Godfrey did not know.

On the evening of the reading of the will, prompted thereto by the
Pasteur, that young gentleman wrote a letter to his father, a task
which he always thought difficult, to tell him what had happened. As
he found explanations impossible, it was brief, though the time
occupied in composing drafts, was long. Finally it took the following
form:--

"My dear Father,--I think I told you that I travelled out here with
a lady named Miss Ogilvy, whom I have often seen since. She has
just died and left me, as I understand, about �12,000, which I am
to get when I am twenty-five. Meanwhile I am to have the income,
so I am glad to say I shall not cost you any more. Also she has
left me a large house in Lucerne with a beautiful garden and a lot
of fine furniture, and some money to keep it up. As I can't live
there, I suppose it will have to be let.

"I hope you are very well. Please give my love to Mrs. Parsons and
tell her about this. It is growing very cold here, and the
mountains are covered with snow, but there has been little frost.
I am getting on well with my French, which I talk with
Mademoiselle Juliette, who knows no English, although she thinks
she does. She is a pretty girl and sings nicely. Madame, too, is
very charming. I work at the other things with the Pasteur, who is
kind to me. He will write to you also and I will enclose his
letter.

"Your affectionate son,
"Godfrey."

The receipt of this epistle caused astonishment in Mr. Knight, not
unmixed with irritation. Why could not the boy be more explicit? Who
was Miss Ogilvy, whose name, so far as he could recollect, he now
heard for the first time, and how did she come to leave Godfrey so
much money? The story was so strange that he began to wonder whether
it were a joke, or perhaps, an hallucination. If not, there must be a
great deal unrevealed. The letter which Godfrey said the Pasteur would
write was not enclosed, and if it had been, probably would not have
helped him much as he did not understand French, and could scarcely
decipher his cramped calligraphy. Lastly, he had heard nothing from
any lawyers or trustees.

In his bewilderment he went straight to Hawk's Hall, taking the letter
with him, with a view to borrowing books of reference which might
enable him to identify Miss Ogilvy. The butler said that he thought
Sir John was in and showed him to the morning room, where he found
Isobel, who informed him that her father had just gone out. Their
meeting was not affectionate, for as has been told, Isobel detested
Mr. Knight, and he detested Isobel. Moreover, there was a reason,
which shall be explained, which just then made him feel uncomfortable
in her presence. Being there, however, he thought it necessary to
explain the object of his visit.

"I have had a very strange letter from that odd boy, Godfrey," he
said, "which makes me want to borrow a book. Here it is, perhaps you
will read it, as it will save time and explanation."

"I don't want to read Godfrey's letters," said Isobel, stiffly.

"It will save time," repeated Mr. Knight, thrusting it towards her.

Then, being overcome by curiosity, she read it. The money part did not
greatly interest her; money was such a common thing of which she heard
so much. What interested her were, first, Miss Ogilvy and the
unexplained reasons of her bequest, and secondly, in a more acute
fashion, Mademoiselle Boiset, who was pretty and sang so nicely. Miss
Ogilvy, whoever she might have been, at any rate, was dead, but
Juliette clearly was much alive, with her prettiness and good voice.
No wonder, then, that she had not heard from Godfrey. He was too
occupied with the late Miss Ogilvy and the very present Mademoiselle
Juliette, in whose father's house he was living as one of the family.

Isobel's face, however, showed none of her wonderings. She read the
letter quite composedly, but with such care that afterwards she could
have repeated it by heart. Then she handed it back, saying:

"Well, Godfrey seems to have been fortunate."

"Yes, but why? I find no explanation of this bequest--if there is a
bequest."

"No doubt there is, Mr. Knight. Godfrey was always most truthful and
above-board," she answered, looking at him.

Mr. Knight flinched and coloured at her words, and the steady gaze of
those grey eyes. She wondered why though she was not to learn for a
long while.

"I thought perhaps you could lend me some book, or books, which would
enable me to find out about Miss Ogilvy. I have never heard of her
before, though I think that in one of his brief communications Godfrey
did mention a lady who was kind to him in the train."

"Certainly, there are lots of them. 'Who's Who'--only she would not be
there unless she was very rich, but you might look. Peerages; they're
no good as she was Miss Ogilvy, though, of course, she might be the
daughter of a baron. 'County Families,' Red Books, etc. Let's try some
of them."

So they did try. Various Ogilvys there were, but none who gave them
any clue. This was not strange, as both Miss Ogilvy's parents had died
in Australia, when she was young, leaving her to be brought up by an
aunt of another name in England, who was also long dead.

So Mr. Knight retreated baffled. Next morning, however, a letter
arrived addressed "Godfrey Knight, Esq.," which after his pleasing
fashion he opened promptly. It proved to be a communication from a
well-known firm of lawyers, which enclosed a copy of Miss Ogilvy's
will, called special attention to the codicil affecting himself, duly
executed before the British Consul and his clerk in Lucerne, gave the
names of the English trustees, solicited information as to where the
interest on the sum bequeathed was to be paid, and so forth.

To this inquiry Mr. Knight at once replied that the moneys might be
paid to him as the father of the legatee, and was furious when all
sorts of objections were raised to that course, unless every kind of
guarantee were given that they would be used solely and strictly for
the benefit of his son. Finally, an account had to be opened on which
cheques could be drawn signed by one of the trustees and Mr. Knight.
This proviso made the latter even more indignant than before,
especially as it was accompanied by an intimation that the trustees
would require his son's consent, either by letter or in a personal
interview, to any arrangements as to his career, etc., which involved
expenditure of the trust moneys. When a somewhat rude and lengthy
letter to them to that effect was met with a curt acknowledgment of
its receipt and a reference to their previous decision, Mr. Knight's
annoyance hardened into a permanent grievance against his son, whom he
seemed to hold responsible for what he called an "affront" to himself.

He was a man with large ideas of paternal rights, of which an example
may be given that was not without its effect upon the vital interests
of others.

When Isobel returned from London, after the fancy-dress ball, at which
she thought she had seen a ghost whilst sitting in the square with her
young admirer who was dressed as a knight, she waited for a long while
expecting to receive a letter from Godfrey. As none came, although she
knew from Mrs. Parsons that he had written home several times, she
began to wonder as to the cause of his silence. Then an idea occurred
to her.

Supposing that what she had seen was no fancy of her mind, but Godfrey
himself, who in some mysterious fashion had found his way into that
square, perhaps in the hope of seeing her at the ball in order to say
goodbye? This was possible, since she had ascertained from some casual
remark by his father that he did not leave London until the following
morning.

If this had happened, if he had seen her "playing the fool," as she
expressed it to herself with that good-looking man in the square, what
would he have thought of her? She never paused to remember that he had
no right to think anything. Somehow from childhood she acknowledged in
her heart that he had every right, though when she said this to
herself, she did not in the least understand all that the admission
conveyed. Although she bullied and maltreated him at times, yet to
herself she always confessed him to be her lord and master. He was the
one male creature for whom she cared in the whole world, indeed,
putting her mother out of the question, she cared for no other man or
woman, and would never learn to do so.

For hers was a singular and very rare instance of almost undivided
affection centred on a single object. So far as his sex was concerned
Godfrey was her all, a position of which any man might well be proud
in the case of any woman, and especially of one who had many
opportunities of devoting herself to others. In her example, however,
she was not to be thanked, for the reason that she only followed her
nature, or perhaps the dictates of that fate which inspires and rules
very great love, whether it be between man and woman, between parent
and child, between brother and brother, or between friend and friend.
Such feelings do not arise, or grow. They simply /are/; the blossoms
of a plant that has its secret roots far away in the soil of
Circumstance beyond our ken, and that, mayhap, has pushed its branches
through existences without number, and in the climates of many worlds.

So at least it was with Isobel, and so it had always been since she
kissed the sleeping child in the old refectory of the Abbey. She was
his, and in a way, however much she might doubt or mistrust, her inner
sense and instinct told her that he was always hers, that so he had
always been and so always would remain. With the advent of womanhood
these truths came home to her with an increased force because she knew
--again by instinct--that this fact of womanhood multiplied the
chances of attainment to the unity which she desired, however partial
that might still prove to be.

Yet she knew also that this great mutual attraction did not depend on
sex, though by the influence of sex it might be quickened and
accentuated. It was something much more deep and wide, something which
she did not and perhaps never would understand. The sex element was
accidental, so much so that the passage of a few earthly years would
rob it of its power to attract and make it as though it had never
been, but the perfect friendship between their souls was permanent and
without shadow of change. She knew, oh!, she knew, although no word of
it had ever been spoken between them, that theirs was the Love
Eternal. The quick perception of her woman's mind told her these
things, of which Godfrey's in its slower growth was not yet aware.

Animated by this new idea that she had really seen Godfrey, and what
was much worse, that Godfrey had really seen her upon an occasion when
she would have much preferred to remain invisible to him, she was
filled with remorse, and determined to write him a letter. Like that
of the young man himself to his father, its composition took her a
good deal of time.

Here it is as copied from her third and final draft:--

"My dear old Godfrey,--I have an idea that you were in the Square
on the night of the fancy ball when I came out, and wore that
horrid Plantagenet dress which, after all, did not fit. (I sent it
to a jumble-sale where no one would buy it, so I gave it to Mrs.
Smilie, who has nine children, to cut into frocks for her little
girls.) If you /were/ there, instead of resting before your long
journey as you ought to have done, and saw me with a man in armour
and a rose--and the rest, of course you will have understood that
this was all part of the game. You see, we had to pretend that we
were knights and ladies who, when they were not cutting throats or
being carried off with their hair down, seem to have wasted their
time in giving each other favours, and all that sort of bosh. (We
did not know what a favour was, so we used a rose.) The truth is
that the young man and his armour, especially his spurs which tore
my dress, and everything about him bored me, the more so because
all the while I was thinking of--well, other things--how you would
get through your journey, and like those French people and the
rest. So now, if you /were/ there, you won't be cross, and if you
were /not/, and don't understand what I am saying, it isn't worth
bothering about. In any case, you had no right to--I mean, be
cross. It is I who should be cross with you for poking about in a
London square so late and not coming forward to say how do you do
and be introduced to the knight. That is all I have to say about
the business, so don't write and ask me any questions.

"There is no news here--there never is--except that I haven't been
into that church since you left, and don't mean to, which makes
your father look at me as sourly as though he had eaten a whole
hatful of crab-apples. He hates me, you know, and I rather like
him for showing it, as it saves me the trouble of trying to keep
up appearances. Do tell me, when you write, how to explain his
ever having been /your/ father. If he still wants you to go into
the Church I advise you to study the Thirty-nine Articles. I read
them all through yesterday, and how anybody can swear to them in
this year of grace I'm sure I don't know. They must shut their
eyes and open their mouths, like we used to do when we took
powders. By the way, did you ever read anything about Buddhism?
I've got a book on it which I think rather fine. At any rate, it
is a great idea, though I think I should find it difficult to
follow 'the Way.'

"I am sorry to say that Mother is not well at all. She coughs a
great deal now that Essex is getting so damp, and grows thinner
and thinner. The doctor says she ought to go to Egypt, only
Father won't hear of it. But I won't write about that or we should
have another argument on the fourth Commandment. Good-bye, dear
old boy.--Your affectionate Isobel.

"P.S.--When you write don't tell me all about Switzerland and snow-
covered mountains and blue, bottomless lakes, etc., which I can
read in books. Tell me about yourself and what you are doing and
thinking--especially what you are thinking.

"P.P.S.--That man in armour isn't really good-looking; he has a
squint. Also he puts scent upon his hair and can't spell. I know
because he tried to write a bit of poetry on my programme and got
it all wrong."

When she had finished this somewhat laboured epistle Isobel remembered
that she had forgotten to ask Godfrey to write down his address.
Bethinking her that it would be known to Mrs. Parsons, she took it
round to the Abbey House, proposing to add it there. As it happened
Mrs. Parsons was out, so she left it with the housemaid, who promised
faithfully to give it to her when she returned, with Isobel's message
as to writing the address on the sealed envelope. In order that she
might not forget, the maid placed it on a table by the back door. By
ill luck, however, presently through that door, came, not Mrs.
Parsons, but the Rev. Mr. Knight. He saw the letter addressed to
Godfrey Knight, Esq., and, though he half pretended to himself that he
did not, at once recognized Isobel's large, upright hand. Taking it
from the table he carried it with him into his study and there
contemplated it for a while.

"That pernicious girl is communicating with Godfrey," he said to
himself, "which I particularly wish to prevent."

A desire came upon him to know what was in the letter, and he began to
argue with himself as to his "duty"--that was the word he used.
Finally he concluded that as Godfrey was still so young and so open to
bad influences from that quarter, this duty clearly indicated that he
should read the letter before it was forwarded. In obedience to this
high impulse he opened and read it, with the result that by the time
it was finished there was perhaps no more angry clergyman in the
British Empire. The description of himself looking as though he had
eaten a hatful of crab-apples; the impious remarks about the Thirty-
nine Articles; the suggestion that Godfrey, instead of going to bed as
he had ordered him to do that evening, was wandering about London at
midnight; the boldly announced intention of the writer of not going to
church--indeed, every word of it irritated him beyond bearing.

"Well," he said aloud, "I do not think that I am called upon to spend
twopence-halfpenny" (for Isobel had forgotten the stamp) "in
forwarding such poisonous trash to a son whom I should guard from
evil. Hateful girl! At any rate she shall have no answer to this
effusion."

Then he put the letter into a drawer which he locked.

As a consequence, naturally, Isobel did receive "no answer," a fact
from which she drew her own conclusions. Indeed, it would not be too
much to say that these seared her soul. She had written to Godfrey,
she had humbled herself before Godfrey, and he sent her--no answer. It
never occurred to her to make inquiries as to the fate of that letter,
except once when she asked the housemaid whom she chanced to meet,
whether she had given it to Mrs. Parsons. The girl, whose brain, or
whatever represented that organ, was entirely fixed upon a young man
in the village of whom she was jealous, answered, yes. Perhaps she had
entirely forgotten the incident, or perhaps she considered the
throwing of the letter upon a table as equivalent to delivery.

At any rate, Isobel, who thought, like most other young people, that
when they once have written something, it is conveyed by a magical
agency to the addressee, even if left between the leaves of a blotter,
accepted the assurance as conclusive. Without doubt the letter had
gone and duly arrived, only Godfrey did not choose to answer it, that
was all. Perhaps this might be because he was still angry on account
of the knight in armour--oh! how she hoped that this was the reason,
but, as her cold, common sense, of which she had an unusual share,
convinced her, much more probably the explanation was that he was
engaged otherwise, and did not think it worth while to take the
trouble to write.

Later on, it is true, she did mean to ask Mrs. Parsons whether she had
forwarded the letter. But as it chanced, before she did so, that good
woman burst into a flood of conversation about Godfrey, saying how
happy he seemed to be in his new home with such nice ladies around,
who it was plain, thought so much of him, and so forth. This garrulity
Isobel took as an intended hint and ceased from her contemplated
queries. When some months later Mr. Knight brought her Godfrey's
epistle which announced his inheritance, needless to say, everything
became plain as a pikestaff to her experienced intelligence.

So it came about that two young people, who adored each other, were
estranged for a considerable length of time. For Isobel wrote no more
letters, and the proud and outraged Godfrey would rather have died
than attempt to open a correspondence--after what he had seen in that
London square. It is true that in his brief epistles home, which were
all addressed to his father, since Mrs. Parsons was what is called "a
poor scholar," he did try in a roundabout way to learn something about
Isobel, but these inquiries, for reasons of his own, his parent
completely ignored. In short, she might have been dead for all that
Godfrey heard of her, as he believed that she was dead--to him.

Meanwhile, Isobel had other things to occupy her. Her mother, as she
had said in the letter which Mr. Knight's sense of duty compelled him
to steal, became very ill with lung trouble. The doctors announced
that she ought to be taken to Egypt or some other warm climate, such
as Algeria, for the winter months. Sir John would hear nothing of the
sort. For years past he had chosen to consider that his wife was
hypochondriacal, and all the medical opinions in London would not have
induced him to change that view. The fact was, as may be guessed, that
it did not suit him to leave England, and that for sundry reasons
which need not be detailed, he did not wish that Isobel should
accompany her mother to what he called "foreign parts." In his secret
heart he reflected that if Lady Jane died, well, she died, and while
heaven gained a saint, earth, or at any rate, Sir John Blake, would be
no loser. She had played her part in his life, there was nothing more
to be made of her either as a woman as a social asset. What would it
matter if one more pale, uninteresting lady of title joined the
majority?

Isobel had one of her stormy interviews with Sir John upon this matter
of her mother's health.

"She ought to go abroad," she said.

"Who told you that?" asked her father.

"The doctors. I waited for them and asked them."

"Then you had no business to do so. You are an impertinent and
interfering chit."

"Is it impertinent and interfering to be anxious about one's mother's
health, even if one is a chit?" inquired Isobel, looking him straight
in the eyes.

Then he broke out in his coarse way, saying things to his daughter of
which he should have been ashamed.

She waited until he ceased, red-faced, and gasping, and replied:

"Were it not for my mother, whom you abuse, although she is such an
angel and has always been so kind to you, I would leave you, Father,
and earn my own living, or go with my uncle Edgar to Mexico, where he
is to be appointed Minister, as he and Aunt Margaret asked me to. As
it is I shall stop here, though if anything happens to Mother, because
you will not send her abroad, I shall go if I have to run away. Why
won't you let her go?" she added with a change of voice. "You need not
come; I could look after her. If you think that Egypt or the other
place is too far, you know the doctors say that perhaps Switzerland
would do her good, and that is quite near."

He caught hold of this suggestion, and exclaimed, with a sneer:

"I know why you want to go to Switzerland, Miss. To run after that
whipper-snapper of a parson's son, eh? Well, you shan't. And as for
why I won't let her go, it's because I don't believe those doctors,
who say one minute that she should go to Egypt, which is hot, and the
next to Switzerland, which is cold. Moreover, I mean you to stop in
England, and not go fooling about with a lot of strange men in these
foreign places. You are grown up now and out, and I have my own plans
for your future, which can't come off if you are away. We stop here
till Christmas, and then go to London. There, that's all, so have
done."

At these insults, especially that which had to do with Godfrey, Isobel
turned perfectly scarlet and bit her lip till the blood ran. Then
without another word she went away, leaving him, if the truth were
known, a little frightened. Still, he would not alter his decision,
partly because to do so must interfere with his plans, and he was a
very obstinate man, and partly because he refused to be beaten by
Isobel. This was, he felt, a trial of strength between them, and if he
gave way now, she would be master. His wife's welfare did not enter
into his calculations.

So they stopped in Essex, where matters went as the doctors had
foretold, only more quickly than they expected. Lady Jane's complaint
grew rapidly worse, so rapidly that soon there was no question of her
going abroad. At the last moment Sir John grew frightened, as bullies
are apt to do, and on receipt of an indignant letter from Lord
Lynfield, now an old man, who had been informed of the facts by his
grand-daughter, offered to send his wife to Egypt, or anywhere else.
Again the doctors were called in to report, and told him with brutal
frankness that if their advice had been taken when it was first given,
probably she would have lived for some years. As it was, it was
impossible for her to travel, since the exertion might cause her death
upon the journey, especially if she became seasick.

This verdict came to Isobel's knowledge as the first had done. Indeed,
in his confusion, emphasized by several glasses of port, her father
blurted it out himself.

"I wonder whether you will ever be sorry," was her sole comment.

Then she sat down to watch her mother die, and to think. Could there
be any good God, she wondered, if He allowed such things to happen.
Poor girl! it was her first experience of the sort, and as yet she did
not know what things are allowed to happen in this world in obedience
to the workings of unalterable laws by whoever and for whatever
purpose these may be decreed.

Being ignorant, however, and still very young and untaught of life,
she could not be expected to take these large views, or to guess at
the Hand of Mercy which holds the cup of human woes. She saw her
mother fading away because of her father's obstinacy and self-seeking,
and it was inconceivable to her that such an unnecessary thing could
be allowed by a gentle and loving Providence. Therefore, she turned
her back on Providence, as many a strong soul has done before her,
rejecting it for the reason that she could not understand.

Had she but guessed, this attitude of hers, which could not be
concealed entirely in the case of a nature so frank, was the bitterest
drop in her mother's draught of death. She, poor gentle creature, made
no complaints, but only excuses for her husband's conduct. Nor, save
for Isobel's sake did she desire to live. Her simple faith upbore her
through the fears of departure, and assured her of forgiveness for all
errors, and of happiness beyond in a land where there was one at least
whom she wished to meet.

"I won't try to argue with you, because I am not wise enough to
understand such things," she said to Isobel, "but I wish, dearest,
that you would not be so certain as to matters which are too high for
us."

"I can't help it, Mother," she answered.

Lady Jane looked at her and smiled, and then said:

"No, darling, you can't help it now, but I am sure that a time must
come when you will think differently. I say this because something
tells me that it is so, and the knowledge makes me very happy. You see
we must all of us go through darkness and storms in life; that is if
we are worth anything, for, of course, there are people who do not
feel. Yet at the end there is light, and love, and peace, for you as
well as for me, Isobel; yes, and for all of us who have tried to trust
and to repent of what we have done wrong."

"As you believe it I hope that it is true; indeed, I think that it
must be true, Mother dear," said Isobel with a little sob.

The subject was never discussed between them again, but although
Isobel showed no outward change of attitude, from that time forward
till the end, her mother seemed much easier in her mind about her and
her views.

"It will all come right. We shall meet again. I know it. I know it,"
were her last words.

She died quite suddenly on the 27th of December, the day upon which
Sir John had announced that they were to move to London.

As a matter of fact, one of the survivors of this trio was to move
much further than to London, namely, Isobel herself. It happened thus.
The funeral was over; the relatives and the few friends who attended
it had departed to their rooms if they were stopping in the house, or
elsewhere; Isobel and her father were left alone. She confronted him,
a tall, slim figure, whose thick blonde hair and pale face contrasted
strikingly with her black dress. Enormous in shape, for so Sir John
had grown, carmine-coloured shading to purle about the shaved chin and
lips (which were also of rather a curious hue), bald-headed, bold yet
shifty-eyed, also clad in black, with a band of crape like to that of
a Victorian mute, about his shining tall hat, he leaned against the
florid, marble mantelpiece, a huge obese blot upon its whiteness. They
were a queer contrast, as dissimilar perhaps as two human beings well
could be.

For a while there was silence between them, which he, whose nerves
were not so young or strong as his daughter's, was the first to break.

"Well, she's dead, poor dear," he said.

"Yes," answered Isobel, her pent-up indignation bursting forth, "and
you killed her."

Then he too burst forth.

"Damn you, what do you mean, you little minx?" he asked. "Why do you
say I killed her, because I did what I thought the best for all of us?
No woman had a better husband, as I am sure she acknowledges in heaven
to-day."

"I don't know what Mother thinks in heaven, if there is one for her,
as there ought to be. But I do know what I think on earth," remarked
the burning Isobel.

"And I know what I think also," shouted her enraged parent, dashing
the new, crape-covered hat on to the table in front of him, "and it is
that the further you and I are apart from each other, the better we
are likely to get on."

"I agree with you, Father."

"Look here, Isobel, you said that your uncle Edgar, who has been
appointed Minister to Mexico, offered to take you with him to be a
companion to his daughter, your cousin Emily. Well, you can go if you
like. I'll pay the shot and shut up this house for a while. I'm sick
of the cursed place, and can get to Harwich just as well from London.
Write and make the arrangements, for one year, no more. By that time
your temper may have improved," he added with an ugly sneer.

"Thank you, Father, I will."

He stared at her for a little while. She met his gaze unflinchingly,
and in the end it was not her eyes that dropped. Then with a smothered
exclamation he stamped out of the room, kicking Isobel's little
terrier out of the path with his elephantine foot. The poor beast, of
which she was very fond, limped to her whining, for it was much hurt.
She took it in her arms and kissed it, weeping tears of wrath and
pity.

"I wonder what Godfrey would say about the fifth Commandment if he had
been here this afternoon, you poor thing," she whispered to the
whimpering dog, which was licking its hanging leg. "There is no God.
If there had been He would not have given me such a father, or my
mother such a husband."

Then still carrying the injured terrier, she went out and glided
through the darkness to her mother's grave in the neighbouring
churchyard. The sextons had done their work, and the raw, brown earth
of the grave, mixed with bits of decayed coffins and fragments of
perished human bones, was covered with hot-house flowers. Among these
lay a gorgeous wreath of white and purple orchids, to which was tied a
card whereon was written: "To my darling wife, from her bereaved
husband, John Blake."

Isobel lifted the wreath from its place of honour and threw it over the
the churchyard wall. Then she wept and wept as though her heart would break.

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