Two on a Tower by Thomas Hardy (page 2)

pleasanter to dwell on than likely issues that have no savour of high speculation in them. The equatorial question was a great one; and she had caught such a large spark from his enthusiasm that she could think of nothing so piquant as how to obtain the important instrument.

When Tabitha Lark arrived at the Great House next day, instead of finding Lady Constantine in bed, as formerly, she discovered her in the library, poring over what astronomical works she had been able to unearth from the worm-eaten shelves. As these publications were, for a science of such rapid development, somewhat venerable, there was not much help of a practical kind to be gained from them. Nevertheless, the equatorial retained a hold upon her fancy, till she became as eager to see one on the Rings-Hill column as Swithin himself.

The upshot of it was that Lady Constantine sent a messenger that evening to Welland Bottom, where the homestead of Swithin’s grandmother was situated, requesting the young man’s presence at the house at twelve o’clock next day.

He hurriedly returned an obedient reply, and the promise was enough to lend great freshness to her manner next morning, instead of the leaden air which was too frequent with her before the sun reached the meridian, and sometimes after. Swithin had, in fact, arisen as an attractive little intervention between herself and despair.

VII

A fog defaced all the trees of the park that morning, the white atmosphere adhered to the ground like a fungoid growth from it, and made the turfed undulations look slimy and raw. But Lady Constantine settled down in her chair to await the coming of the late curate’s son with a serenity which the vast blanks outside could neither baffle nor destroy.

At two minutes to twelve the door-bell rang, and a look overspread the lady’s face that was neither maternal, sisterly, nor amorous; but partook in an indescribable manner of all three kinds. The door was flung open and the young man was ushered in, the fog still clinging to his hair, in which she could discern a little notch where she had nipped off the curl.

A speechlessness that socially was a defect in him was to her view a piquant attribute just now. He looked somewhat alarmed.

‘Lady Constantine, have I done anything, that you have sent–?’ he began breathlessly, as he gazed in her face, with parted lips.

‘O no, of course not! I have decided to do something,–nothing more,’ she smilingly said, holding out her hand, which he rather gingerly touched. ‘Don’t look so concerned. Who makes equatorials?’

This remark was like the drawing of a weir-hatch and she was speedily inundated with all she wished to know concerning astronomical opticians. When he had imparted the particulars he waited, manifestly burning to know whither these inquiries tended.

‘I am not going to buy you one,’ she said gently.

He looked as if he would faint.

‘Certainly not. I do not wish it. I–could not have accepted it,’ faltered the young man.

‘But I am going to buy one for MYSELF. I lack a hobby, and I shall choose astronomy. I shall fix my equatorial on the column.’

Swithin brightened up.

‘And I shall let you have the use of it whenever you choose. In brief, Swithin St. Cleeve shall be Lady Constantine’s Astronomer Royal; and she–and she–‘

‘Shall be his Queen.’ The words came not much the worse for being uttered only in the tone of one anxious to complete a tardy sentence.

‘Well, that’s what I have decided to do,’ resumed Lady Constantine. ‘I will write to these opticians at once.’

There seemed to be no more for him to do than to thank her for the privilege, whenever it should be available, which he promptly did, and then made as if to go. But Lady Constantine detained him with, ‘Have you ever seen my library?’

‘No; never.’

‘You don’t say you would like to see it.’

‘But I should.’

‘It is the third door on the right. You can find your way in, and you can stay there as long as you like.’

Swithin then left the morning-room for the apartment designated, and amused himself in that ‘soul of the house,’ as Cicero defined it, till he heard the lunch bell sounding from the turret, when he came down from the library steps, and thought it time to go home. But at that moment a servant entered to inquire whether he would or would not prefer to have his lunch brought in to him there; upon his replying in the affirmative a large tray arrived on the stomach of a footman, and Swithin was greatly surprised to see a whole pheasant placed at his disposal.

Having breakfasted at eight that morning, and having been much in the open air afterwards, the Adonis-astronomer’s appetite assumed grand proportions. How much of that pheasant he might consistently eat without hurting his dear patroness Lady Constantine’s feelings, when he could readily eat it all, was a problem in which the reasonableness of a larger and larger quantity argued itself inversely as a smaller and smaller quantity remained. When, at length, he had finally decided on a terminal point in the body of the bird, the door was gently opened.

‘Oh, you have not finished?’ came to him over his shoulder, in a considerate voice.

‘O yes, thank you, Lady Constantine,’ he said, jumping up.

‘Why did you prefer to lunch in this awkward, dusty place?’

‘I thought–it would be better,’ said Swithin simply.

‘There is fruit in the other room, if you like to come. But perhaps you would rather not?’

‘O yes, I should much like to,’ said Swithin, walking over his napkin, and following her as she led the way to the adjoining apartment.

Here, while she asked him what he had been reading, he modestly ventured on an apple, in whose flavour he recognized the familiar taste of old friends robbed from her husband’s orchards in his childhood, long before Lady Constantine’s advent on the scene. She supposed he had confined his search to his own sublime subject, astronomy?

Swithin suddenly became older to the eye, as his thoughts reverted to the topic thus reintroduced. ‘Yes,’ he informed her. ‘I seldom read any other subject. In these days the secret of productive study is to avoid well.’

‘Did you find any good treatises?’

‘None. The theories in your books are almost as obsolete as the Ptolemaic System. Only fancy, that magnificent Cyclopaedia, leather-bound, and stamped, and gilt, and wide margined, and bearing the blazon of your house in magnificent colours, says that the twinkling of the stars is probably caused by heavenly bodies passing in front of them in their revolutions.’

‘And is it not so? That was what I learned when I was a girl.’

The modern Eudoxus now rose above the embarrassing horizon of Lady Constantine’s great house, magnificent furniture, and awe-inspiring footman. He became quite natural, all his self-consciousness fled, and his eye spoke into hers no less than his lips to her ears, as he said, ‘How such a theory can have lingered on to this day beats conjecture! Francois Arago, as long as forty or fifty years ago, conclusively established the fact that scintillation is the simplest thing in the world,–merely a matter of atmosphere. But I won’t speak of this to you now. The comparative absence of scintillation in warm countries was noticed by Humboldt. Then, again, the scintillations vary. No star flaps his wings like Sirius when he lies low! He flashes out emeralds and rubies, amethystine flames and sapphirine colours, in a manner quite marvellous to behold, and this is only ONE star! So, too, do Arcturus, and Capella, and lesser luminaries. . . . But I tire you with this subject?’

‘On the contrary, you speak so beautifully that I could listen all day.’

The astronomer threw a searching glance upon her for a moment; but there was no satire in the warm soft eyes which met his own with a luxurious contemplative interest. ‘Say some more of it to me,’ she continued, in a voice not far removed from coaxing.

After some hesitation the subject returned again to his lips, and he said some more–indeed, much more; Lady Constantine often throwing in an appreciative remark or question, often meditatively regarding him, in pursuance of ideas not exactly based on his words, and letting him go on as he would.

Before he left the house the new astronomical project was set in train. The top of the column was to be roofed in, to form a proper observatory; and on the ground that he knew better than any one else how this was to be carried out, she requested him to give precise directions on the point, and to superintend the whole. A wooden cabin was to be erected at the foot of the tower, to provide better accommodation for casual visitors to the observatory than the spiral staircase and lead-flat afforded. As this cabin would be completely buried in the dense fir foliage which enveloped the lower part of the column and its pedestal, it would be no disfigurement to the general appearance. Finally, a path was to be made across the surrounding fallow, by which she might easily approach the scene of her new study.

When he was gone she wrote to the firm of opticians concerning the equatorial for whose reception all this was designed.

The undertaking was soon in full progress; and by degrees it became the talk of the hamlets round that Lady Constantine had given up melancholy for astronomy, to the great advantage of all who came in contact with her. One morning, when Tabitha Lark had come as usual to read, Lady Constantine chanced to be in a quarter of the house to which she seldom wandered; and while here she heard her maid talking confidentially to Tabitha in the adjoining room on the curious and sudden interest which Lady Constantine had acquired in the moon and stars.

‘They do say all sorts of trumpery,’ observed the handmaid. ‘They say–though ’tis little better than mischief, to be sure–that it isn’t the moon, and it isn’t the stars, and it isn’t the plannards, that my lady cares for, but for the pretty lad who draws ’em down from the sky to please her; and being a married example, and what with sin and shame knocking at every poor maid’s door afore you can say, “Hands off, my dear,” to the civilest young man, she ought to set a better pattern.’

Lady Constantine’s face flamed up vividly.

‘If Sir Blount were to come back all of a sudden–oh, my!’

Lady Constantine grew cold as ice.

‘There’s nothing in it,’ said Tabitha scornfully. ‘I could prove it any day.’

‘Well, I wish I had half her chance!’ sighed the lady’s maid. And no more was said on the subject then.

Tabitha’s remark showed that the suspicion was quite in embryo as yet. Nevertheless, saying nothing to reveal what she had overheard, immediately after the reading Lady Constantine flew like a bird to where she knew that Swithin might be found.

He was in the plantation, setting up little sticks to mark where the wooden cabin was to stand. She called him to a remote place under the funereal trees.

‘I have altered my mind,’ she said. ‘I can have nothing to do with this matter.’

‘Indeed?’ said Swithin, surprised.

‘Astronomy is not my hobby any longer. And you are not my Astronomer Royal.’

‘O Lady Constantine!’ cried the youth, aghast. ‘Why, the work is begun! I thought the equatorial was ordered.’

She dropped her voice, though a Jericho shout would not have been overheard: ‘Of course astronomy is my hobby privately, and you are to be my Astronomer Royal, and I still furnish the observatory; but not to the outer world. There is a reason against my indulgence in such scientific fancies openly; and the project must be arranged in this wise. The whole enterprise is yours: you rent the tower of me: you build the cabin: you get the equatorial. I simply give permission, since you desire it. The path that was to be made from the hill to the park is not to be thought of. There is to be no communication between the house and the column. The equatorial will arrive addressed to you, and its cost I will pay through you. My name must not appear, and I vanish entirely from the undertaking. . . . This blind is necessary,’ she added, sighing. ‘Good-bye!’

‘But you DO take as much interest as before, and it WILL be yours just the same?’ he said, walking after her. He scarcely comprehended the subterfuge, and was absolutely blind as to its reason.

‘Can you doubt it? But I dare not do it openly.’

With this she went away; and in due time there circulated through the parish an assertion that it was a mistake to suppose Lady Constantine had anything to do with Swithin St. Cleeve or his star- gazing schemes. She had merely allowed him to rent the tower of her for use as his observatory, and to put some temporary fixtures on it for that purpose.

After this Lady Constantine lapsed into her former life of loneliness; and by these prompt measures the ghost of a rumour which had barely started into existence was speedily laid to rest. It had probably originated in her own dwelling, and had gone but little further. Yet, despite her self-control, a certain north window of the Great House, that commanded an uninterrupted view of the upper ten feet of the column, revealed her to be somewhat frequently gazing from it at a rotundity which had begun to appear on the summit. To those with whom she came in contact she sometimes addressed such remarks as, ‘Is young Mr. St. Cleeve getting on with his observatory? I hope he will fix his instruments without damaging the column, which is so interesting to us as being in memory of my dear husband’s great-grandfather–a truly brave man.’

On one occasion her building-steward ventured to suggest to her that, Sir Blount having deputed to her the power to grant short leases in his absence, she should have a distinctive agreement with Swithin, as between landlord and tenant, with a stringent clause against his driving nails into the stonework of such an historical memorial. She replied that she did not wish to be severe on the last representative of such old and respected parishioners as St. Cleeve’s mother’s family had been, and of such a well-descended family as his father’s; so that it would only be necessary for the steward to keep an eye on Mr. St. Cleeve’s doings.

Further, when a letter arrived at the Great House from Hilton and Pimm’s, the opticians, with information that the equatorial was ready and packed, and that a man would be sent with it to fix it, she replied to that firm to the effect that their letter should have been addressed to Mr. St. Cleeve, the local astronomer, on whose behalf she had made the inquiries; that she had nothing more to do with the matter; that he would receive the instrument and pay the bill,–her guarantee being given for the latter performance.

VIII

Lady Constantine then had the pleasure of beholding a waggon, laden with packing-cases, moving across the field towards the pillar; and not many days later Swithin, who had never come to the Great House since the luncheon, met her in a path which he knew to be one of her promenades.

‘The equatorial is fixed, and the man gone,’ he said, half in doubt as to his speech, for her commands to him not to recognize her agency or patronage still puzzled him. ‘I respectfully wish–you could come and see it, Lady Constantine.’

‘I would rather not; I cannot.’

‘Saturn is lovely; Jupiter is simply sublime; I can see double stars in the Lion and in the Virgin, where I had seen only a single one before. It is all I required to set me going!’

‘I’ll come. But–you need say nothing about my visit. I cannot come to-night, but I will some time this week. Yet only this once, to try the instrument. Afterwards you must be content to pursue your studies alone.’

Swithin seemed but little affected at this announcement. ‘Hilton and Pimm’s man handed me the bill,’ he continued.

‘How much is it?’

He told her. ‘And the man who has built the hut and dome, and done the other fixing, has sent in his.’ He named this amount also.

‘Very well. They shall be settled with. My debts must be paid with my money, which you shall have at once,–in cash, since a cheque would hardly do. Come to the house for it this evening. But no, no–you must not come openly; such is the world. Come to the window–the window that is exactly in a line with the long snowdrop bed, in the south front–at eight to-night, and I will give you what is necessary.’

‘Certainly, Lady Constantine,’ said the young man.

At eight that evening accordingly, Swithin entered like a spectre upon the terrace to seek out the spot she had designated. The equatorial had so entirely absorbed his thoughts that he did not trouble himself seriously to conjecture the why and wherefore of her secrecy. If he casually thought of it, he set it down in a general way to an intensely generous wish on her part not to lessen his influence among the poorer inhabitants by making him appear the object of patronage.

While he stood by the long snowdrop bed, which looked up at him like a nether Milky Way, the French casement of the window opposite softly opened, and a hand bordered by a glimmer of lace was stretched forth, from which he received a crisp little parcel,– bank-notes, apparently. He knew the hand, and held it long enough to press it to his lips, the only form which had ever occurred to him of expressing his gratitude to her without the incumbrance of clumsy words, a vehicle at the best of times but rudely suited to such delicate merchandise. The hand was hastily withdrawn, as if the treatment had been unexpected. Then seemingly moved by second thoughts she bent forward and said, ‘Is the night good for observations?’

‘Perfect.’

She paused. ‘Then I’ll come to-night,’ she at last said. ‘It makes no difference to me, after all. Wait just one moment.’

He waited, and she presently emerged, muffled up like a nun; whereupon they left the terrace and struck across the park together.

Very little was said by either till they were crossing the fallow, when he asked if his arm would help her. She did not take the offered support just then; but when they were ascending the prehistoric earthwork, under the heavy gloom of the fir-trees, she seized it, as if rather influenced by the oppressive solitude than by fatigue.

Thus they reached the foot of the column, ten thousand spirits in prison seeming to gasp their griefs from the funereal boughs overhead, and a few twigs scratching the pillar with the drag of impish claws as tenacious as those figuring in St. Anthony’s temptation.

‘How intensely dark it is just here!’ she whispered. ‘I wonder you can keep in the path. Many ancient Britons lie buried there doubtless.’

He led her round to the other side, where, feeling his way with his hands, he suddenly left her, appearing a moment after with a light.

‘What place is this?’ she exclaimed.

‘This is the new wood cabin,’ said he.

She could just discern the outline of a little house, not unlike a bathing-machine without wheels.

‘I have kept lights ready here,’ he went on, ‘as I thought you might come any evening, and possibly bring company.’

‘Don’t criticize me for coming alone,’ she exclaimed with sensitive promptness. ‘There are social reasons for what I do of which you know nothing.’

‘Perhaps it is much to my discredit that I don’t know.’

‘Not at all. You are all the better for it. Heaven forbid that I should enlighten you. Well, I see this is the hut. But I am more curious to go to the top of the tower, and make discoveries.’

He brought a little lantern from the cabin, and lighted her up the winding staircase to the temple of that sublime mystery on whose threshold he stood as priest.

The top of the column was quite changed. The tub-shaped space within the parapet, formerly open to the air and sun, was now arched over by a light dome of lath-work covered with felt. But this dome was not fixed. At the line where its base descended to the parapet there were half a dozen iron balls, precisely like cannon-shot, standing loosely in a groove, and on these the dome rested its whole weight. In the side of the dome was a slit, through which the wind blew and the North Star beamed, and towards it the end of the great telescope was directed. This latter magnificent object, with its circles, axes, and handles complete, was securely fixed in the middle of the floor.

‘But you can only see one part of the sky through that slit,’ said she.

The astronomer stretched out his arm, and the whole dome turned horizontally round, running on the balls with a rumble like thunder. Instead of the star Polaris, which had first been peeping in through the slit, there now appeared the countenances of Castor and Pollux. Swithin then manipulated the equatorial, and put it through its capabilities in like manner.

She was enchanted; being rather excitable she even clapped her hands just once. She turned to him: ‘Now are you happy?’

‘But it is all YOURS, Lady Constantine.’

‘At this moment. But that’s a defect which can soon be remedied. When is your birthday?’

‘Next month,–the seventh.’

‘Then it shall all be yours,–a birthday present.’

The young man protested; it was too much.

‘No, you must accept it all,–equatorial, dome stand, hut, and everything that has been put here for this astronomical purpose. The possession of these apparatus would only compromise me. Already they are reputed to be yours, and they must be made yours. There is no help for it. If ever’ (here her voice lost some firmness),–‘if ever you go away from me,–from this place, I mean,–and marry, and settle in a new home elsewhere for good, and forget me, you must take these things, equatorial and all, and never tell your wife or anybody how they came to be yours.’

‘I wish I could do something more for you!’ exclaimed the much-moved astronomer. ‘If you could but share my fame,–supposing I get any, which I may die before doing,–it would be a little compensation. As to my going away and marrying, I certainly shall not. I may go away, but I shall never marry.’

‘Why not?’

‘A beloved science is enough wife for me,–combined, perhaps, with a little warm friendship with one of kindred pursuits.’

‘Who is the friend of kindred pursuits?’

‘Yourself I should like it to be.’

‘You would have to become a woman before I could be that, publicly; or I a man,’ she replied, with dry melancholy.

‘Why I a woman, or you a man, dear Lady Constantine?’

‘I cannot explain. No; you must keep your fame and your science all to yourself, and I must keep my–troubles.’

Swithin, to divert her from melancholy–not knowing that in the expression of her melancholy thus and now she found much pleasure,– changed the subject by asking if they should take some observations.

‘Yes; the scenery is well hung to-night,’ she said looking out upon the heavens.

Then they proceeded to scan the sky, roving from planet to star, from single stars to double stars, from double to coloured stars, in the cursory manner of the merely curious. They plunged down to that at other times invisible multitude in the back rows of the celestial theatre: remote layers of constellations whose shapes were new and singular; pretty twinklers which for infinite ages had spent their beams without calling forth from a single earthly poet a single line, or being able to bestow a ray of comfort on a single benighted traveller.

‘And to think,’ said Lady Constantine, ‘that the whole race of shepherds, since the beginning of the world,–even those immortal shepherds who watched near Bethlehem,–should have gone into their graves without knowing that for one star that lighted them in their labours, there were a hundred as good behind trying to do so!. . . I have a feeling for this instrument not unlike the awe I should feel in the presence of a great magician in whom I really believed. Its powers are so enormous, and weird, and fantastical, that I should have a personal fear in being with it alone. Music drew an angel down, said the poet: but what is that to drawing down worlds!’

‘I often experience a kind of fear of the sky after sitting in the observing-chair a long time,’ he answered. ‘And when I walk home afterwards I also fear it, for what I know is there, but cannot see, as one naturally fears the presence of a vast formless something that only reveals a very little of itself. That’s partly what I meant by saying that magnitude, which up to a certain point has grandeur, has beyond it ghastliness.’

Thus the interest of their sidereal observations led them on, till the knowledge that scarce any other human vision was travelling within a hundred million miles of their own gave them such a sense of the isolation of that faculty as almost to be a sense of isolation in respect of their whole personality, causing a shudder at its absoluteness. At night, when human discords and harmonies are hushed, in a general sense, for the greater part of twelve hours, there is nothing to moderate the blow with which the infinitely great, the stellar universe, strikes down upon the infinitely little, the mind of the beholder; and this was the case now. Having got closer to immensity than their fellow-creatures, they saw at once its beauty and its frightfulness. They more and more felt the contrast between their own tiny magnitudes and those among which they had recklessly plunged, till they were oppressed with the presence of a vastness they could not cope with even as an idea, and which hung about them like a nightmare.

He stood by her while she observed; she by him when they changed places. Once that Swithin’s emancipation from a trammelling body had been effected by the telescope, and he was well away in space, she felt her influence over him diminishing to nothing. He was quite unconscious of his terrestrial neighbourings, and of herself as one of them. It still further reduced her towards unvarnished simplicity in her manner to him.

The silence was broken only by the ticking of the clock-work which gave diurnal motion to the instrument. The stars moved on, the end of the telescope followed, but their tongues stood still. To expect that he was ever voluntarily going to end the pause by speech was apparently futile. She laid her hand upon his arm.

He started, withdrew his eye from the telescope, and brought himself back to the earth by a visible–almost painful–effort.

‘Do come out of it,’ she coaxed, with a softness in her voice which any man but unpractised Swithin would have felt to be exquisite. ‘I feel that I have been so foolish as to put in your hands an instrument to effect my own annihilation. Not a word have you spoken for the last ten minutes.’

‘I have been mentally getting on with my great theory. I hope soon to be able to publish it to the world. What, are you going? I will walk with you, Lady Constantine. When will you come again?’

‘When your great theory is published to the world.’

IX

Lady Constantine, if narrowly observed at this time, would have seemed to be deeply troubled in conscience, and particularly after the interview above described. Ash Wednesday occurred in the calendar a few days later, and she went to morning service with a look of genuine contrition on her emotional and yearning countenance.

Besides herself the congregation consisted only of the parson, clerk, school-children, and three old people living on alms, who sat under the reading-desk; and thus, when Mr. Torkingham blazed forth the denunciatory sentences of the Commination, nearly the whole force of them seemed to descend upon her own shoulders. Looking across the empty pews she saw through the one or two clear panes of the window opposite a youthful figure in the churchyard, and the very feeling against which she had tried to pray returned again irresistibly.

When she came out and had crossed into the private walk, Swithin came forward to speak to her. This was a most unusual circumstance, and argued a matter of importance.

‘I have made an amazing discovery in connexion with the variable stars,’ he exclaimed. ‘It will excite the whole astronomical world, and the world outside but little less. I had long suspected the true secret of their variability; but it was by the merest chance on earth that I hit upon a proof of my guess. Your equatorial has done it, my good, kind Lady Constantine, and our fame is established for ever!’

He sprang into the air, and waved his hat in his triumph.

‘Oh, I am so glad–so rejoiced!’ she cried. ‘What is it? But don’t stop to tell me. Publish it at once in some paper; nail your name to it, or somebody will seize the idea and appropriate it,– forestall you in some way. It will be Adams and Leverrier over again.’

‘If I may walk with you I will explain the nature of the discovery. It accounts for the occasional green tint of Castor, and every difficulty. I said I would be the Copernicus of the stellar system, and I have begun to be. Yet who knows?’

‘Now don’t be so up and down! I shall not understand your explanation, and I would rather not know it. I shall reveal it if it is very grand. Women, you know, are not safe depositaries of such valuable secrets. You may walk with me a little way, with great pleasure. Then go and write your account, so as to insure your ownership of the discovery. . . . But how you have watched!’ she cried, in a sudden accession of anxiety, as she turned to look more closely at him. ‘The orbits of your eyes are leaden, and your eyelids are red and heavy. Don’t do it–pray don’t. You will be ill, and break down.’

‘I have, it is true, been up a little late this last week,’ he said cheerfully. ‘In fact, I couldn’t tear myself away from the equatorial; it is such a wonderful possession that it keeps me there till daylight. But what does that matter, now I have made the discovery?’

‘Ah, it DOES matter! Now, promise me–I insist–that you will not commit such imprudences again; for what should I do if my Astronomer Royal were to die?’

She laughed, but far too apprehensively to be effective as a display of levity.

They parted, and he went home to write out his paper. He promised to call as soon as his discovery was in print. Then they waited for the result.

It is impossible to describe the tremulous state of Lady Constantine during the interval. The warm interest she took in Swithin St. Cleeve–many would have said dangerously warm interest–made his hopes her hopes; and though she sometimes admitted to herself that great allowance was requisite for the overweening confidence of youth in the future, she permitted herself to be blinded to probabilities for the pleasure of sharing his dreams. It seemed not unreasonable to suppose the present hour to be the beginning of realization to her darling wish that this young man should become famous. He had worked hard, and why should he not be famous early? His very simplicity in mundane affairs afforded a strong presumption that in things celestial he might be wise. To obtain support for this hypothesis she had only to think over the lives of many eminent astronomers.

She waited feverishly for the flourish of trumpets from afar, by which she expected the announcement of his discovery to be greeted. Knowing that immediate intelligence of the outburst would be brought to her by himself, she watched from the windows of the Great House each morning for a sight of his figure hastening down the glade.

But he did not come.

A long array of wet days passed their dreary shapes before her, and made the waiting still more tedious. On one of these occasions she ran across to the tower, at the risk of a severe cold. The door was locked.

Two days after she went again. The door was locked still. But this was only to be expected in such weather. Yet she would have gone on to his house, had there not been one reason too many against such precipitancy. As astronomer and astronomer there was no harm in their meetings; but as woman and man she feared them.

Ten days passed without a sight of him; ten blurred and dreary days, during which the whole landscape dripped like a mop; the park trees swabbed the gravel from the drive, while the sky was a zinc-coloured archi-vault of immovable cloud. It seemed as if the whole science of astronomy had never been real, and that the heavenly bodies, with their motions, were as theoretical as the lines and circles of a bygone mathematical problem.

She could content herself no longer with fruitless visits to the column, and when the rain had a little abated she walked to the nearest hamlet, and in a conversation with the first old woman she met contrived to lead up to the subject of Swithin St. Cleeve by talking about his grandmother.

‘Ah, poor old heart; ’tis a bad time for her, my lady!’ exclaimed the dame.

‘What?’

‘Her grandson is dying; and such a gentleman through and through!’

‘What!. . . Oh, it has something to do with that dreadful discovery!’

‘Discovery, my lady?’

She left the old woman with an evasive answer, and with a breaking heart crept along the road. Tears brimmed into her eyes as she walked, and by the time that she was out of sight sobs burst forth tumultuously.

‘I am too fond of him!’ she moaned; ‘but I can’t help it; and I don’t care if it’s wrong,–I don’t care!’

Without further considerations as to who beheld her doings she instinctively went straight towards Mrs. Martin’s. Seeing a man coming she calmed herself sufficiently to ask him through her dropped veil how poor Mr. St. Cleeve was that day. But she only got the same reply: ‘They say he is dying, my lady.’

When Swithin had parted from Lady Constantine, on the previous Ash- Wednesday, he had gone straight to the homestead and prepared his account of ‘A New Astronomical Discovery.’ It was written perhaps in too glowing a rhetoric for the true scientific tone of mind; but there was no doubt that his assertion met with a most startling aptness all the difficulties which had accompanied the received theories on the phenomena attending those changeable suns of marvellous systems so far away. It accounted for the nebulous mist that surrounds some of them at their weakest time; in short, took up a position of probability which has never yet been successfully assailed.

The papers were written in triplicate, and carefully sealed up with blue wax. One copy was directed to Greenwich, another to the Royal Society, another to a prominent astronomer. A brief statement of the essence of the discovery was also prepared for the leading daily paper.

He considered these documents, embodying as they did two years of his constant thought, reading, and observation, too important to be entrusted for posting to the hands of a messenger; too important to be sent to the sub-post-office at hand. Though the day was wet, dripping wet, he went on foot with them to a chief office, five miles off, and registered them. Quite exhausted by the walk, after his long night-work, wet through, yet sustained by the sense of a great achievement, he called at a bookseller’s for the astronomical periodicals to which he subscribed; then, resting for a short time at an inn, he plodded his way homewards, reading his papers as he went, and planning how to enjoy a repose on his laurels of a week or more.

On he strolled through the rain, holding the umbrella vertically over the exposed page to keep it dry while he read. Suddenly his eye was struck by an article. It was the review of a pamphlet by an American astronomer, in which the author announced a conclusive discovery with regard to variable stars.

The discovery was precisely the discovery of Swithin St. Cleeve. Another man had forestalled his fame by a period of about six weeks.

Then the youth found that the goddess Philosophy, to whom he had vowed to dedicate his whole life, would not in return support him through a single hour of despair. In truth, the impishness of circumstance was newer to him than it would have been to a philosopher of threescore-and-ten. In a wild wish for annihilation he flung himself down on a patch of heather that lay a little removed from the road, and in this humid bed remained motionless, while time passed by unheeded.

At last, from sheer misery and weariness, he fell asleep.

The March rain pelted him mercilessly, the beaded moisture from the heavily charged locks of heath penetrated him through back and sides, and clotted his hair to unsightly tags and tufts. When he awoke it was dark. He thought of his grandmother, and of her possible alarm at missing him. On attempting to rise, he found that he could hardly bend his joints, and that his clothes were as heavy as lead from saturation. His teeth chattering and his knees trembling he pursued his way home, where his appearance excited great concern. He was obliged at once to retire to bed, and the next day he was delirious from the chill.

It was about ten days after this unhappy occurrence that Lady Constantine learnt the news, as above described, and hastened along to the homestead in that state of anguish in which the heart is no longer under the control of the judgment, and self-abandonment even to error, verges on heroism.

On reaching the house in Welland Bottom the door was opened to her by old Hannah, who wore an assiduously sorrowful look; and Lady Constantine was shown into the large room,–so wide that the beams bent in the middle,–where she took her seat in one of a methodic range of chairs, beneath a portrait of the Reverend Mr. St. Cleeve, her astronomer’s erratic father.

The eight unwatered dying plants, in the row of eight flower-pots, denoted that there was something wrong in the house. Mrs. Martin came downstairs fretting, her wonder at beholding Lady Constantine not altogether displacing the previous mood of grief.

‘Here’s a pretty kettle of fish, my lady!’ she exclaimed.

Lady Constantine said, ‘Hush!’ and pointed inquiringly upward.

‘He is not overhead, my lady,’ replied Swithin’s grandmother. ‘His bedroom is at the back of the house.’

‘How is he now?’

‘He is better, just at this moment; and we are more hopeful. But he changes so.’

‘May I go up? I know he would like to see me.’

Her presence having been made known to the sufferer, she was conducted upstairs to Swithin’s room. The way thither was through the large chamber he had used as a study and for the manufacture of optical instruments. There lay the large pasteboard telescope, that had been just such a failure as Crusoe’s large boat; there were his diagrams, maps, globes, and celestial apparatus of various sorts. The absence of the worker, through illness or death is sufficient to touch the prosiest workshop and tools with the hues of pathos, and it was with a swelling bosom that Lady Constantine passed through this arena of his youthful activities to the little chamber where he lay.

Old Mrs. Martin sat down by the window, and Lady Constantine bent over Swithin.

‘Don’t speak to me!’ she whispered. ‘It will weaken you; it will excite you. If you do speak, it must be very softly.’

She took his hand, and one irrepressible tear fell upon it.

‘Nothing will excite me now, Lady Constantine,’ he said; ‘not even your goodness in coming. My last excitement was when I lost the battle. . . . Do you know that my discovery has been forestalled? It is that that’s killing me.’

‘But you are going to recover; you are better, they say. Is it so?’

‘I think I am, to-day. But who can be sure?’

‘The poor boy was so upset at finding that his labour had been thrown away,’ said his grandmother, ‘that he lay down in the rain, and chilled his life out.’

‘How could you do it?’ Lady Constantine whispered. ‘O, how could you think so much of renown, and so little of me? Why, for every discovery made there are ten behind that await making. To commit suicide like this, as if there were nobody in the world to care for you!’

‘It was done in my haste, and I am very, very sorry for it! I beg both you and all my few friends never, never to forgive me! It would kill me with self-reproach if you were to pardon my rashness!’

At this moment the doctor was announced, and Mrs. Martin went downstairs to receive him. Lady Constantine thought she would remain to hear his report, and for this purpose withdrew, and sat down in a nook of the adjoining work-room of Swithin, the doctor meeting her as he passed through it into the sick chamber.

He was there a torturingly long time; but at length he came out to the room she waited in, and crossed it on his way downstairs. She rose and followed him to the stairhead.

‘How is he?’ she anxiously asked. ‘Will he get over it?’

The doctor, not knowing the depth of her interest in the patient, spoke with the blunt candour natural towards a comparatively indifferent inquirer.

‘No, Lady Constantine,’ he replied; ‘there’s a change for the worse.’

And he retired down the stairs.

Scarcely knowing what she did Lady Constantine ran back to Swithin’s side, flung herself upon the bed and in a paroxysm of sorrow kissed him.

X

The placid inhabitants of the parish of Welland, including warbling waggoners, lone shepherds, ploughmen, the blacksmith, the carpenter, the gardener at the Great House, the steward and agent, the parson, clerk, and so on, were hourly expecting the announcement of St. Cleeve’s death. The sexton had been going to see his brother-in- law, nine miles distant, but promptly postponed the visit for a few days, that there might be the regular professional hand present to toll the bell in a note of due fulness and solemnity; an attempt by a deputy, on a previous occasion of his absence, having degenerated into a miserable stammering clang that was a disgrace to the parish.

But Swithin St. Cleeve did not decease, a fact of which, indeed, the habituated reader will have been well aware ever since the rain came down upon the young man in the ninth chapter, and led to his alarming illness. Though, for that matter, so many maimed histories are hourly enacting themselves in this dun-coloured world as to lend almost a priority of interest to narratives concerning those

‘Who lay great bases for eternity
Which prove more short than waste or ruining.’

How it arose that he did not die was in this wise; and his example affords another instance of that reflex rule of the vassal soul over the sovereign body, which, operating so wonderfully in elastic natures, and more or less in all, originally gave rise to the legend that supremacy lay on the other side.

The evening of the day after the tender, despairing, farewell kiss of Lady Constantine, when he was a little less weak than during her visit, he lay with his face to the window. He lay alone, quiet and resigned. He had been thinking, sometimes of her and other friends, but chiefly of his lost discovery. Although nearly unconscious at the time, he had yet been aware of that kiss, as the delicate flush which followed it upon his cheek would have told; but he had attached little importance to it as between woman and man. Had he been dying of love instead of wet weather, perhaps the impulsive act of that handsome lady would have been seized on as a proof that his love was returned. As it was her kiss seemed but the evidence of a naturally demonstrative kindliness, felt towards him chiefly because he was believed to be leaving her for ever.

The reds of sunset passed, and dusk drew on. Old Hannah came upstairs to pull down the blinds and as she advanced to the window he said to her, in a faint voice, ‘Well, Hannah, what news to-day?’

‘Oh, nothing, sir,’ Hannah replied, looking out of the window with sad apathy, ‘only that there’s a comet, they say.’

‘A WHAT?’ said the dying astronomer, starting up on his elbow.

‘A comet–that’s all, Master Swithin,’ repeated Hannah, in a lower voice, fearing she had done harm in some way.

‘Well, tell me, tell me!’ cried Swithin. ‘Is it Gambart’s? Is it Charles the Fifth’s, or Halley’s, or Faye’s, or whose?’

‘Hush!’ said she, thinking St. Cleeve slightly delirious again. ”Tis God A’mighty’s, of course. I haven’t seed en myself, but they say he’s getting bigger every night, and that he’ll be the biggest one known for fifty years when he’s full growed. There, you must not talk any more now, or I’ll go away.’

Here was an amazing event, little noise as it had made in the happening. Of all phenomena that he had longed to witness during his short astronomical career, those appertaining to comets had excited him most. That the magnificent comet of 1811 would not return again for thirty centuries had been quite a permanent regret with him. And now, when the bottomless abyss of death seemed yawning beneath his feet, one of these much-desired apparitions, as large, apparently, as any of its tribe, had chosen to show itself.

‘O, if I could but live to see that comet through my equatorial!’ he cried.

Compared with comets, variable stars, which he had hitherto made his study, were, from their remoteness, uninteresting. They were to the former as the celebrities of Ujiji or Unyamwesi to the celebrities of his own country. Members of the solar system, these dazzling and perplexing rangers, the fascination of all astronomers, rendered themselves still more fascinating by the sinister suspicion attaching to them of being possibly the ultimate destroyers of the human race. In his physical prostration St. Cleeve wept bitterly at not being hale and strong enough to welcome with proper honour the present specimen of these desirable visitors.

The strenuous wish to live and behold the new phenomenon, supplanting the utter weariness of existence that he had heretofore experienced, gave him a new vitality. The crisis passed; there was a turn for the better; and after that he rapidly mended. The comet had in all probability saved his life. The limitless and complex wonders of the sky resumed their old power over his imagination; the possibilities of that unfathomable blue ocean were endless. Finer feats than ever he would perform were to be achieved in its investigation. What Lady Constantine had said, that for one discovery made ten awaited making, was strikingly verified by the sudden appearance of this splendid marvel.

The windows of St. Cleeve’s bedroom faced the west, and nothing would satisfy him but that his bed should be so pulled round as to give him a view of the low sky, in which the as yet minute tadpole of fire was recognizable. The mere sight of it seemed to lend him sufficient resolution to complete his own cure forthwith. His only fear now was lest, from some unexpected cause or other, the comet would vanish before he could get to the observatory on Rings-Hill Speer.

In his fervour to begin observing he directed that an old telescope, which he had used in his first celestial attempts, should be tied at one end to the bed-post, and at the other fixed near his eye as he reclined. Equipped only with this rough improvisation he began to take notes. Lady Constantine was forgotten, till one day, suddenly, wondering if she knew of the important phenomenon, he revolved in his mind whether as a fellow-student and sincere friend of his she ought not to be sent for, and instructed in the use of the equatorial.

But though the image of Lady Constantine, in spite of her kindness and unmistakably warm heart, had been obscured in his mind by the heavenly body, she had not so readily forgotten him. Too shy to repeat her visit after so nearly betraying her secret, she yet, every day, by the most ingenious and subtle means that could be devised by a woman who feared for herself, but could not refrain from tampering with danger, ascertained the state of her young friend’s health. On hearing of the turn in his condition she rejoiced on his account, and became yet more despondent on her own. If he had died she might have mused on him as her dear departed saint without much sin: but his return to life was a delight that bewildered and dismayed.

One evening a little later on he was sitting at his bedroom window as usual, waiting for a sufficient decline of light to reveal the comet’s form, when he beheld, crossing the field contiguous to the house, a figure which he knew to be hers. He thought she must be coming to see him on the great comet question, to discuss which with so delightful and kind a comrade was an expectation full of pleasure. Hence he keenly observed her approach, till something happened that surprised him.

When, at the descent of the hill, she had reached the stile that admitted to Mrs. Martin’s garden, Lady Constantine stood quite still for a minute or more, her gaze bent on the ground. Instead of coming on to the house she went heavily and slowly back, almost as if in pain; and then at length, quickening her pace, she was soon out of sight. She appeared in the path no more that day.

XI

Why had Lady Constantine stopped and turned?

A misgiving had taken sudden possession of her. Her true sentiment towards St. Cleeve was too recognizable by herself to be tolerated.

That she had a legitimate interest in him as a young astronomer was true; that her sympathy on account of his severe illness had been natural and commendable was also true. But the superfluous feeling was what filled her with trepidation.

Superfluities have been defined as things you cannot do without, and this particular emotion, that came not within her rightful measure, was in danger of becoming just such a superfluity with her. In short, she felt there and then that to see St. Cleeve again would be an impropriety; and by a violent effort she retreated from his precincts, as he had observed.

She resolved to ennoble her conduct from that moment of her life onwards. She would exercise kind patronage towards Swithin without once indulging herself with his company. Inexpressibly dear to her deserted heart he was becoming, but for the future he should at least be hidden from her eyes. To speak plainly, it was growing a serious question whether, if he were not hidden from her eyes, she would not soon be plunging across the ragged boundary which divides the permissible from the forbidden.

By the time that she had drawn near home the sun was going down. The heavy, many-chevroned church, now subdued by violet shadow except where its upper courses caught the western stroke of flame- colour, stood close to her grounds, as in many other parishes, though the village of which it formerly was the nucleus had become quite depopulated: its cottages had been demolished to enlarge the park, leaving the old building to stand there alone, like a standard without an army.

It was Friday night, and she heard the organist practising voluntaries within. The hour, the notes, the even-song of the birds, and her own previous emotions, combined to influence her devotionally. She entered, turning to the right and passing under the chancel arch, where she sat down and viewed the whole empty length, east and west. The semi-Norman arches of the nave, with their multitudinous notchings, were still visible by the light from the tower window, but the lower portion of the building was in obscurity, except where the feeble glimmer from the candle of the organist spread a glow-worm radiance around. The player, who was Miss Tabitha Lark, continued without intermission to produce her wandering sounds, unconscious of any one’s presence except that of the youthful blower at her side.

The rays from the organist’s candle illuminated but one small fragment of the chancel outside the precincts of the instrument, and that was the portion of the eastern wall whereon the ten commandments were inscribed. The gilt letters shone sternly into Lady Constantine’s eyes; and she, being as impressionable as a turtle-dove, watched a certain one of those commandments on the second table, till its thunder broke her spirit with blank contrition.

She knelt down, and did her utmost to eradicate those impulses towards St. Cleeve which were inconsistent with her position as the wife of an absent man, though not unnatural in her as his victim.

She knelt till she seemed scarcely to belong to the time she lived in, which lost the magnitude that the nearness of its perspective lent it on ordinary occasions, and took its actual rank in the long line of other centuries. Having once got out of herself, seen herself from afar off, she was calmer, and went on to register a magnanimous vow. She would look about for some maiden fit and likely to make St. Cleeve happy; and this girl she would endow with what money she could afford, that the natural result of their apposition should do him no worldly harm. The interest of her, Lady Constantine’s, life should be in watching the development of love between Swithin and the ideal maiden. The very painfulness of the scheme to her susceptible heart made it pleasing to her conscience; and she wondered that she had not before this time thought of a stratagem which united the possibility of benefiting the astronomer with the advantage of guarding against peril to both Swithin and herself. By providing for him a suitable helpmate she would preclude the dangerous awakening in him of sentiments reciprocating her own.

Arrived at a point of exquisite misery through this heroic intention, Lady Constantine’s tears moistened the books upon which her forehead was bowed. And as she heard her feverish heart throb against the desk, she firmly believed the wearing impulses of that heart would put an end to her sad life, and momentarily recalled the banished image of St. Cleeve to apostrophise him in thoughts that paraphrased the quaint lines of Heine’s Lieb’ Liebchen:–

‘Dear my love, press thy hand to my breast, and tell If thou tracest the knocks in that narrow cell; A carpenter dwells there; cunning is he, And slyly he’s shaping a coffin for me!’

Lady Constantine was disturbed by a break in the organist’s meandering practice, and raising her head she saw a person standing by the player. It was Mr. Torkingham, and what he said was distinctly audible. He was inquiring for herself.

‘I thought I saw Lady Constantine walk this way,’ he rejoined to Tabitha’s negative. ‘I am very anxious indeed to meet with her.’

She went forward. ‘I am here,’ she said. ‘Don’t stop playing, Miss Lark. What is it, Mr. Torkingham?’

Tabitha thereupon resumed her playing, and Mr. Torkingham joined Lady Constantine.

‘I have some very serious intelligence to break to your ladyship,’ he said. ‘But–I will not interrupt you here.’ (He had seen her rise from her knees to come to him.) ‘I will call at the House the first moment you can receive me after reaching home.’

‘No, tell me here,’ she said, seating herself.

He came close, and placed his hand on the poppy-head of the seat.

‘I have received a communication,’ he resumed haltingly, ‘in which I am requested to prepare you for the contents of a letter that you will receive to-morrow morning.’

‘I am quite ready.’

‘The subject is briefly this, Lady Constantine: that you have been a widow for more than eighteen months.’

‘Dead!’

‘Yes. Sir Blount was attacked by dysentery and malarious fever, on the banks of the Zouga in South Africa, so long ago as last October twelvemonths, and it carried him off. Of the three men who were with him, two succumbed to the same illness, a hundred miles further on; while the third, retracing his steps into a healthier district, remained there with a native tribe, and took no pains to make the circumstances known. It seems to be only by the mere accident of his having told some third party that we know of the matter now. This is all I can tell you at present.’

She was greatly agitated for a few moments; and the Table of the Law opposite, which now seemed to appertain to another dispensation, glistened indistinctly upon a vision still obscured by the old tears.

‘Shall I conduct you home?’ asked the parson.

‘No thank you,’ said Lady Constantine. ‘I would rather go alone.’

XII

On the afternoon of the next day Mr. Torkingham, who occasionally dropped in to see St. Cleeve, called again as usual; after duly remarking on the state of the weather, congratulating him on his sure though slow improvement, and answering his inquiries about the comet, he said, ‘You have heard, I suppose, of what has happened to Lady Constantine?’

‘No! Nothing serious?’

‘Yes, it is serious.’ The parson informed him of the death of Sir Blount, and of the accidents which had hindered all knowledge of the same,–accidents favoured by the estrangement of the pair and the cessation of correspondence between them for some time.

His listener received the news with the concern of a friend, Lady Constantine’s aspect in his eyes depending but little on her condition matrimonially.

‘There was no attempt to bring him home when he died?’

‘O no. The climate necessitates instant burial. We shall have more particulars in a day or two, doubtless.’

‘Poor Lady Constantine,–so good and so sensitive as she is! I suppose she is quite prostrated by the bad news.’

‘Well, she is rather serious,–not prostrated. The household is going into mourning.’

‘Ah, no, she would not be quite prostrated,’ murmured Swithin, recollecting himself. ‘He was unkind to her in many ways. Do you think she will go away from Welland?’

That the vicar could not tell. But he feared that Sir Blount’s affairs had been in a seriously involved condition, which might necessitate many and unexpected changes.

Time showed that Mr. Torkingham’s surmises were correct.

During the long weeks of early summer, through which the young man still lay imprisoned, if not within his own chamber, within the limits of the house and garden, news reached him that Sir Blount’s mismanagement and eccentric behaviour were resulting in serious consequences to Lady Constantine; nothing less, indeed, than her almost complete impoverishment. His personalty was swallowed up in paying his debts, and the Welland estate was so heavily charged with annuities to his distant relatives that only a mere pittance was left for her. She was reducing the establishment to the narrowest compass compatible with decent gentility. The horses were sold one by one; the carriages also; the greater part of the house was shut up, and she resided in the smallest rooms. All that was allowed to remain of her former contingent of male servants were an odd man and a boy. Instead of using a carriage she now drove about in a donkey- chair, the said boy walking in front to clear the way and keep the animal in motion; while she wore, so his informants reported, not an ordinary widow’s cap or bonnet, but something even plainer, the black material being drawn tightly round her face, giving her features a small, demure, devout cast, very pleasing to the eye.

‘Now, what’s the most curious thing in this, Mr. San Cleeve,’ said Sammy Blore, who, in calling to inquire after Swithin’s health, had imparted some of the above particulars, ‘is that my lady seems not to mind being a pore woman half so much as we do at seeing her so. ‘Tis a wonderful gift, Mr. San Cleeve, wonderful, to be able to guide yerself, and not let loose yer soul in blasting at such a misfortune. I should go and drink neat regular, as soon as I had swallered my breakfast, till my innerds was burnt out like a’ old copper, if it had happened to me; but my lady’s plan is best. Though I only guess how one feels in such losses, to be sure, for I never had nothing to lose.’

Meanwhile the observatory was not forgotten; nor that visitant of singular shape and habits which had appeared in the sky from no one knew whence, trailing its luminous streamer, and proceeding on its way in the face of a wondering world, till it should choose to vanish as suddenly as it had come.

When, about a month after the above dialogue took place, Swithin was allowed to go about as usual, his first pilgrimage was to the Rings- Hill Speer. Here he studied at leisure what he had come to see.

On his return to the homestead, just after sunset, he found his grandmother and Hannah in a state of great concern. The former was looking out for him against the evening light, her face showing itself worn and rutted, like an old highway, by the passing of many days. Her information was that in his absence Lady Constantine had called in her driving-chair, to inquire for him. Her ladyship had wished to observe the comet through the great telescope, but had found the door locked when she applied at the tower. Would he kindly leave the door unfastened to-morrow, she had asked, that she might be able to go to the column on the following evening for the same purpose? She did not require him to attend.

During the next day he sent Hannah with the key to Welland House, not caring to leave the tower open. As evening advanced and the comet grew distinct, he doubted if Lady Constantine could handle the telescope alone with any pleasure or profit to herself. Unable, as a devotee to science, to rest under this misgiving, he crossed the field in the furrow that he had used ever since the corn was sown, and entered the plantation. His unpractised mind never once guessed that her stipulations against his coming might have existed along with a perverse hope that he would come.

On ascending he found her already there. She sat in the observing- chair: the warm light from the west, which flowed in through the opening of the dome, brightened her face, and her face only, her robes of sable lawn rendering the remainder of her figure almost invisible.

‘You have come!’ she said with shy pleasure. ‘I did not require you. But never mind.’ She extended her hand cordially to him.

Before speaking he looked at her with a great new interest in his eye. It was the first time that he had seen her thus, and she was altered in more than dress. A soberly-sweet expression sat on her face. It was of a rare and peculiar shade–something that he had never seen before in woman.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ she continued. ‘Your footsteps were audible to me from the very bottom, and I knew they were yours. You look almost restored.’

‘I am almost restored,’ he replied, respectfully pressing her hand. ‘A reason for living arose, and I lived.’

‘What reason?’ she inquired, with a rapid blush.

He pointed to the rocket-like object in the western sky.

‘Oh, you mean the comet. Well, you will never make a courtier! You know, of course, what has happened to me; that I have no longer a husband–have had none for a year and a half. Have you also heard that I am now quite a poor woman? Tell me what you think of it.’

‘I have thought very little of it since I heard that you seemed to mind poverty but little. There is even this good in it, that I may now be able to show you some little kindness for all those you have done me, my dear lady.’

‘Unless for economy’s sake, I go and live abroad, at Dinan, Versailles, or Boulogne.’

Swithin, who had never thought of such a contingency, was earnest in his regrets; without, however, showing more than a sincere friend’s disappointment.

‘I did not say it was absolutely necessary,’ she continued. ‘I have, in fact, grown so homely and home-loving, I am so interested in the place and the people here, that, in spite of advice, I have almost determined not to let the house; but to continue the less business-like but pleasanter alternative of living humbly in a part of it, and shutting up the rest.’

‘Your love of astronomy is getting as strong as mine!’ he said ardently. ‘You could not tear yourself away from the observatory!’

‘You might have supposed me capable of a little human feeling as well as scientific, in connection with the observatory.’

‘Dear Lady Constantine, by admitting that your astronomer has also a part of your interest–‘

‘Ah, you did not find it out without my telling!’ she said, with a playfulness which was scarcely playful, a new accession of pinkness being visible in her face. ‘I diminish myself in your esteem by reminding you.’

‘You might do anything in this world without diminishing yourself in my esteem, after the goodness you have shown. And more than that, no misrepresentation, no rumour, no damning appearance whatever would ever shake my loyalty to you.’

‘But you put a very matter-of-fact construction on my motives sometimes. You see me in such a hard light that I have to drop hints in quite a manoeuvring manner to let you know I am as sympathetic as other people. I sometimes think you would rather have me die than have your equatorial stolen. Confess that your admiration for me was based on my house and position in the county! Now I am shorn of all that glory, such as it was, and am a widow, and am poorer than my tenants, and can no longer buy telescopes, and am unable, from the narrowness of my circumstances, to mix in circles that people formerly said I adorned, I fear I have lost the little hold I once had over you.’

‘You are as unjust now as you have been generous hitherto,’ said St. Cleeve, with tears in his eyes at the gentle banter of the lady, which he, poor innocent, read as her real opinions. Seizing her hand he continued, in tones between reproach and anger, ‘I swear to you that I have but two devotions, two thoughts, two hopes, and two blessings in this world, and that one of them is yourself!’

‘And the other?’

‘The pursuit of astronomy.’

‘And astronomy stands first.’

‘I have never ordinated two such dissimilar ideas. And why should you deplore your altered circumstances, my dear lady? Your widowhood, if I may take the liberty to speak on such a subject, is, though I suppose a sadness, not perhaps an unmixed evil. For though your pecuniary troubles have been discovered to the world and yourself by it, your happiness in marriage was, as you have confided to me, not great; and you are now left free as a bird to follow your own hobbies.’

‘I wonder you recognize that.’

‘But perhaps,’ he added, with a sigh of regret, ‘you will again fall a prey to some man, some uninteresting country squire or other, and be lost to the scientific world after all.’

‘If I fall a prey to any man, it will not be to a country squire. But don’t go on with this, for heaven’s sake! You may think what you like in silence.’

‘We are forgetting the comet,’ said St. Cleeve. He turned, and set the instrument in order for observation, and wheeled round the dome.

While she was looking at the nucleus of the fiery plume, that now filled so large a space of the sky as completely to dominate it, Swithin dropped his gaze upon the field, and beheld in the dying light a number of labourers crossing directly towards the column.

‘What do you see?’ Lady Constantine asked, without ceasing to observe the comet.

‘Some of the work-folk are coming this way. I know what they are coming for,–I promised to let them look at the comet through the glass.’

‘They must not come up here,’ she said decisively.

‘They shall await your time.’

‘I have a special reason for wishing them not to see me here. If you ask why, I can tell you. They mistakenly suspect my interest to be less in astronomy than in the astronomer, and they must have no showing for such a wild notion. What can you do to keep them out?’

‘I’ll lock the door,’ said Swithin. ‘They will then think I am away.’ He ran down the staircase, and she could hear him hastily turning the key. Lady Constantine sighed.

‘What weakness, what weakness!’ she said to herself. ‘That envied power of self-control, where is it? That power of concealment which a woman should have–where? To run such risks, to come here alone,- -oh, if it were known! But I was always so,–always!’

She jumped up, and followed him downstairs.

XIII

He was standing immediately inside the door at the bottom, though it was so dark she could hardly see him. The villagers were audibly talking just without.

‘He’s sure to come, rathe or late,’ resounded up the spiral in the vocal note of Hezzy Biles. ‘He wouldn’t let such a fine show as the comet makes to-night go by without peeping at it,–not Master Cleeve! Did ye bring along the flagon, Haymoss? Then we’ll sit down inside his little board-house here, and wait. He’ll come afore bed-time. Why, his spy-glass will stretch out that there comet as long as Welland Lane!’

‘I’d as soon miss the great peep-show that comes every year to Greenhill Fair as a sight of such a immortal spectacle as this!’ said Amos Fry.

‘”Immortal spectacle,”–where did ye get that choice mossel, Haymoss?’ inquired Sammy Blore. ‘Well, well, the Lord save good scholars–and take just a bit o’ care of them that bain’t! As ’tis so dark in the hut, suppose we draw out the bench into the front here, souls?’

The bench was accordingly brought forth, and in order to have a back to lean against, they placed it exactly across the door into the spiral staircase.

‘Now, have ye got any backy? If ye haven’t, I have,’ continued Sammy Blore. A striking of matches followed, and the speaker concluded comfortably, ‘Now we shall do very well.’

‘And what do this comet mean?’ asked Haymoss. ‘That some great tumult is going to happen, or that we shall die of a famine?’

‘Famine–no!’ said Nat Chapman. ‘That only touches such as we, and the Lord only consarns himself with born gentlemen. It isn’t to be supposed that a strange fiery lantern like that would be lighted up for folks with ten or a dozen shillings a week and their gristing, and a load o’ thorn faggots when we can get ’em. If ’tis a token that he’s getting hot about the ways of anybody in this parish, ’tis about my Lady Constantine’s, since she is the only one of a figure worth such a hint.’

‘As for her income,–that she’s now lost.’

‘Ah, well; I don’t take in all I hear.’

Lady Constantine drew close to St. Cleeve’s side, and whispered, trembling, ‘Do you think they will wait long? Or can we get out?’

Swithin felt the awkwardness of the situation. The men had placed the bench close to the door, which, owing to the stairs within, opened outwards; so that at the first push by the pair inside to release themselves the bench must have gone over, and sent the smokers sprawling on their faces. He whispered to her to ascend the column and wait till he came.

‘And have the dead man left her nothing? Hey? And have he carried his inheritance into’s grave? And will his skeleton lie warm on account o’t? Hee-hee!’ said Haymoss.

”Tis all swallered up,’ observed Hezzy Biles. ‘His goings-on made her miserable till ‘a died, and if I were the woman I’d have my randys now. He ought to have bequeathed to her our young gent, Mr. St. Cleeve, as some sort of amends. I’d up and marry en, if I were she; since her downfall has brought ’em quite near together, and made him as good as she in rank, as he was afore in bone and breeding.’

‘D’ye think she will?’ asked Sammy Blore. ‘Or is she meaning to enter upon a virgin life for the rest of her days?’

‘I don’t want to be unreverent to her ladyship; but I really don’t think she is meaning any such waste of a Christian carcase. I say she’s rather meaning to commit flat matrimony wi’ somebody or other, and one young gentleman in particular.’

‘But the young man himself?’

‘Planned, cut out, and finished for the delight of ‘ooman!’

‘Yet he must be willing.’

‘That would soon come. If they get up this tower ruling plannards together much longer, their plannards will soon rule them together, in my way o’ thinking. If she’ve a disposition towards the knot, she can soon teach him.’

‘True, true, and lawfully. What before mid ha’ been a wrong desire is now a holy wish!’

The scales fell from Swithin St. Cleeve’s eyes as he heard the words of his neighbours. How suddenly the truth dawned upon him; how it bewildered him, till he scarcely knew where he was; how he recalled the full force of what he had only half apprehended at earlier times, particularly of that sweet kiss she had impressed on his lips when she supposed him dying,–these vivid realizations are difficult to tell in slow verbiage. He could remain there no longer, and with an electrified heart he retreated up the spiral.

He found Lady Constantine half way to the top, standing by a loop- hole; and when she spoke he discovered that she was almost in tears. ‘Are they gone?’ she asked.

‘I fear they will not go yet,’ he replied, with a nervous fluctuation of manner that had never before appeared in his bearing towards her.

‘What shall I do?’ she asked. ‘I ought not to be here; nobody knows that I am out of the house. Oh, this is a mistake! I must go home somehow.’

‘Did you hear what they were saying?’

‘No,’ said she. ‘What is the matter? Surely you are disturbed? What did they say?’

‘It would be the exaggeration of frankness in me to tell you.’

‘Is it what a woman ought not to be made acquainted with?’

‘It is, in this case. It is so new and so indescribable an idea to me–that’–he leant against the concave wall, quite tremulous with strange incipient sentiments.

‘What sort of an idea?’ she asked gently.

‘It is–an awakening. In thinking of the heaven above, I did not perceive–the–‘

‘Earth beneath?’

‘The better heaven beneath. Pray, dear Lady Constantine, give me your hand for a moment.’

She seemed startled, and the hand was not given.

‘I am so anxious to get home,’ she repeated. ‘I did not mean to stay here more than five minutes!’

‘I fear I am much to blame for this accident,’ he said. ‘I ought not to have intruded here. But don’t grieve! I will arrange for your escape, somehow. Be good enough to follow me down.’

They redescended, and, whispering to Lady Constantine to remain a few stairs behind, he began to rattle and unlock the door.

The men precipitately removed their bench, and Swithin stepped out, the light of the summer night being still enough to enable them to distinguish him.

‘Well, Hezekiah, and Samuel, and Nat, how are you?’ he said boldly.

‘Well, sir, ’tis much as before wi’ me,’ replied Nat. ‘One hour a week wi’ God A’mighty and the rest with the devil, as a chap may say. And really, now yer poor father’s gone, I’d as lief that that Sunday hour should pass like the rest; for Pa’son Tarkenham do tease a feller’s conscience that much, that church is no hollerday at all to the limbs, as it was in yer reverent father’s time! But we’ve been waiting here, Mr. San Cleeve, supposing ye had not come.’

‘I have been staying at the top, and fastened the door not to be disturbed. Now I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have another engagement this evening, so that it would be inconvenient to admit you. To-morrow evening, or any evening but this, I will show you the comet and any stars you like.’

They readily agreed to come the next night, and prepared to depart. But what with the flagon, and the pipes, and the final observations, getting away was a matter of time. Meanwhile a cloud, which nobody had noticed, arose from the north overhead, and large drops of rain began to fall so rapidly that the conclave entered the hut till it should be over. St. Cleeve strolled off under the firs.

The next moment there was a rustling through the trees at another point, and a man and woman appeared. The woman took shelter under a tree, and the man, bearing wraps and umbrellas, came forward.

‘My lady’s man and maid,’ said Sammy.

‘Is her ladyship here?’ asked the man.

‘No. I reckon her ladyship keeps more kissable company,’ replied Nat Chapman.

‘Pack o’ stuff!’ said Blore.

‘Not here? Well, to be sure! We can’t find her anywhere in the wide house! I’ve been sent to look for her with these overclothes and umbrella. I’ve suffered horse-flesh traipsing up and down, and can’t find her nowhere. Lord, Lord, where can she be, and two months’ wages owing to me!’

‘Why so anxious, Anthony Green, as I think yer name is shaped? You be not a married man?’ said Hezzy.

”Tis what they call me, neighbours, whether or no.’

‘But surely you was a bachelor chap by late, afore her ladyship got rid of the regular servants and took ye?’

‘I were; but that’s past!’

‘And how came ye to bow yer head to ‘t, Anthony? ‘Tis what you never was inclined to. You was by no means a doting man in my time.’

‘Well, had I been left to my own free choice, ’tis as like as not I should ha’ shunned forming such kindred, being at that time a poor day man, or weekly, at my highest luck in hiring. But ’tis wearing work to hold out against the custom of the country, and the woman wanting ye to stand by her and save her from unborn shame; so, since common usage would have it, I let myself be carried away by opinion, and took her. Though she’s never once thanked me for covering her confusion, that’s true! But, ’tis the way of the lost when safe, and I don’t complain. Here she is, just behind, under the tree, if you’d like to see her?–a very nice homespun woman to look at, too, for all her few weather-stains. . . . Well, well, where can my lady be? And I the trusty jineral man–’tis more than my place is worth to lose her! Come forward, Christiana, and talk nicely to the work- folk.’

While the woman was talking the rain increased so much that they all retreated further into the hut. St. Cleeve, who had impatiently stood a little way off, now saw his opportunity, and, putting in his head, said, ‘The rain beats in; you had better shut the door. I must ascend and close up the dome.’

Slamming the door upon them without ceremony he quickly went to Lady Constantine in the column, and telling her they could now pass the villagers unseen he gave her his arm. Thus he conducted her across the front of the hut into the shadows of the firs.

‘I will run to the house and harness your little carriage myself,’ he said tenderly. ‘I will then take you home in it.’

‘No; please don’t leave me alone under these dismal trees!’ Neither would she hear of his getting her any wraps; and, opening her little sunshade to keep the rain out of her face, she walked with him across the insulating field, after which the trees of the park afforded her a sufficient shelter to reach home without much damage.

Swithin was too greatly affected by what he had overheard to speak much to her on the way, and protected her as if she had been a shorn lamb. After a farewell which had more meaning than sound in it, he hastened back to Rings-Hill Speer. The work-folk were still in the hut, and, by dint of friendly converse and a sip at the flagon, had so cheered Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Green that they neither thought nor cared what had become of Lady Constantine.

St. Cleeve’s sudden sense of new relations with that sweet patroness had taken away in one half-hour his natural ingenuousness. Henceforth he could act a part.

‘I have made all secure at the top,’ he said, putting his head into the hut. ‘I am now going home. When the rain stops, lock this door and bring the key to my house.’

XIV

The laboured resistance which Lady Constantine’s judgment had offered to her rebellious affection ere she learnt that she was a widow, now passed into a bashfulness that rendered her almost as unstable of mood as before. But she was one of that mettle–fervid, cordial, and spontaneous–who had not the heart to spoil a passion; and her affairs having gone to rack and ruin by no fault of her own she was left to a painfully narrowed existence which lent even something of rationality to her attachment. Thus it was that her tender and unambitious soul found comfort in her reverses.

As for St. Cleeve, the tardiness of his awakening was the natural result of inexperience combined with devotion to a hobby. But, like a spring bud hard in bursting, the delay was compensated by after speed. At once breathlessly recognizing in this fellow-watcher of the skies a woman who loved him, in addition to the patroness and friend, he truly translated the nearly forgotten kiss she had given him in her moment of despair.

Lady Constantine, in being eight or nine years his senior, was an object even better calculated to nourish a youth’s first passion than a girl of his own age, superiority of experience and ripeness of emotion exercising the same peculiar fascination over him as over other young men in their first ventures in this kind.

The alchemy which thus transmuted an abstracted astronomer into an eager lover–and, must it be said, spoilt a promising young physicist to produce a common-place inamorato–may be almost described as working its change in one short night. Next morning he was so fascinated with the novel sensation that he wanted to rush off at once to Lady Constantine, and say, ‘I love you true!’ in the intensest tones of his mental condition, to register his assertion in her heart before any of those accidents which ‘creep in ‘twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,’ should occur to hinder him. But his embarrassment at standing in a new position towards her would not allow him to present himself at her door in any such hurry. He waited on, as helplessly as a girl, for a chance of encountering her.

But though she had tacitly agreed to see him on any reasonable occasion, Lady Constantine did not put herself in his way. She even kept herself out of his way. Now that for the first time he had learnt to feel a strong impatience for their meeting, her shyness for the first time led her to delay it. But given two people living in one parish, who long from the depths of their hearts to be in each other’s company, what resolves of modesty, policy, pride, or apprehension will keep them for any length of time apart?

One afternoon he was watching the sun from his tower, half echoing the Greek astronomer’s wish that he might be set close to that luminary for the wonder of beholding it in all its glory, under the slight penalty of being consumed the next instant. He glanced over the high-road between the field and the park (which sublunary features now too often distracted his attention from his telescope), and saw her passing along that way.

She was seated in the donkey-carriage that had now taken the place of her landau, the white animal looking no larger than a cat at that distance. The buttoned boy, who represented both coachman and footman, walked alongside the animal’s head at a solemn pace; the dog stalked at the distance of a yard behind the vehicle, without indulging in a single gambol; and the whole turn-out resembled in dignity a dwarfed state procession.

Here was an opportunity but for two obstructions: the boy, who might be curious; and the dog, who might bark and attract the attention of any labourers or servants near. Yet the risk was to be run, and, knowing that she would soon turn up a certain shady lane at right angles to the road she had followed, he ran hastily down the staircase, crossed the barley (which now covered the field) by the path not more than a foot wide that he had trodden for himself, and got into the lane at the other end. By slowly walking along in the direction of the turnpike-road he soon had the satisfaction of seeing her coming. To his surprise he also had the satisfaction of perceiving that neither boy nor dog was in her company.

They both blushed as they approached, she from sex, he from inexperience. One thing she seemed to see in a moment, that in the interval of her absence St. Cleeve had become a man; and as he greeted her with this new and maturer light in his eyes she could not hide her embarrassment, or meet their fire.

‘I have just sent my page across to the column with your book on Cometary Nuclei,’ she said softly; ‘that you might not have to come to the house for it. I did not know I should meet you here.’

‘Didn’t you wish me to come to the house for it?’

‘I did not, frankly. You know why, do you not?’

‘Yes, I know. Well, my longing is at rest. I have met you again. But are you unwell, that you drive out in this chair?’

‘No; I walked out this morning, and am a little tired.’

‘I have been looking for you night and day. Why do you turn your face aside? You used not to be so.’ Her hand rested on the side of the chair, and he took it. ‘Do you know that since we last met, I have been thinking of you–daring to think of you–as I never thought of you before?’

‘Yes, I know it.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I saw it in your face when you came up.’

‘Well, I suppose I ought not to think of you so. And yet, had I not learned to, I should never fully have felt how gentle and sweet you are. Only think of my loss if I had lived and died without seeing more in you than in astronomy! But I shall never leave off doing so now. When you talk I shall love your understanding; when you are silent I shall love your face. But how shall I know that you care to be so much to me?’

Her manner was disturbed as she recognized the impending self- surrender, which she knew not how to resist, and was not altogether at ease in welcoming.

‘O, Lady Constantine,’ he continued, bending over her, ‘give me some proof more than mere seeming and inference, which are all I have at present, that you don’t think this I tell you of presumption in me! I have been unable to do anything since I last saw you for pondering uncertainly on this. Some proof, or little sign, that we are one in heart!’

A blush settled again on her face; and half in effort, half in spontaneity, she put her finger on her cheek. He almost devotionally kissed the spot.

‘Does that suffice?’ she asked, scarcely giving her words voice.

‘Yes; I am convinced.’

‘Then that must be the end. Let me drive on; the boy will be back again soon.’ She spoke hastily, and looked askance to hide the heat of her cheek.

‘No; the tower door is open, and he will go to the top, and waste his time in looking through the telescope.’

‘Then you should rush back, for he will do some damage.’

‘No; he may do what he likes, tinker and spoil the instrument, destroy my papers,–anything, so that he will stay there and leave us alone.’

She glanced up with a species of pained pleasure.

‘You never used to feel like that!’ she said, and there was keen self-reproach in her voice. ‘You were once so devoted to your science that the thought of an intruder into your temple would have driven you wild. Now you don’t care; and who is to blame? Ah, not you, not you!’

The animal ambled on with her, and he, leaning on the side of the little vehicle, kept her company.

‘Well, don’t let us think of that,’ he said. ‘I offer myself and all my energies, frankly and entirely, to you, my dear, dear lady, whose I shall be always! But my words in telling you this will only injure my meaning instead of emphasize it. In expressing, even to myself, my thoughts of you, I find that I fall into phrases which, as a critic, I should hitherto have heartily despised for their commonness. What’s the use of saying, for instance, as I have just said, that I give myself entirely to you, and shall be yours always,–that you have my devotion, my highest homage? Those words have been used so frequently in a flippant manner that honest use of them is not distinguishable from the unreal.’ He turned to her, and added, smiling, ‘Your eyes are to be my stars for the future.’

‘Yes, I know it,–I know it, and all you would say! I dreaded even while I hoped for this, my dear young friend,’ she replied, her eyes being full of tears. ‘I am injuring you; who knows that I am not ruining your future,–I who ought to know better? Nothing can come of this, nothing must,–and I am only wasting your time. Why have I drawn you off from a grand celestial study to study poor lonely me? Say you will never despise me, when you get older, for this episode in our lives. But you will,–I know you will! All men do, when they have been attracted in their unsuspecting youth, as I have attracted you. I ought to have kept my resolve.’

‘What was that?’

‘To bear anything rather than draw you from your high purpose; to be like the noble citizen of old Greece, who, attending a sacrifice, let himself be burnt to the bone by a coal that jumped into his sleeve rather than disturb the sacred ceremony.’

‘But can I not study and love both?’

‘I hope so,–I earnestly hope so. But you’ll be the first if you do, and I am the responsible one if you do not.’

‘You speak as if I were quite a child, and you immensely older. Why, how old do you think I am? I am twenty.’

‘You seem younger. Well, that’s so much the better. Twenty sounds strong and firm. How old do you think I am?’

‘I have never thought of considering.’ He innocently turned to scrutinize her face. She winced a little. But the instinct was premature. Time had taken no liberties with her features as yet; nor had trouble very roughly handled her.

‘I will tell you,’ she replied, speaking almost with physical pain, yet as if determination should carry her through. ‘I am eight-and- twenty–nearly–I mean a little more, a few months more. Am I not a fearful deal older than you?’

‘At first it seems a great deal,’ he answered, musing. ‘But it doesn’t seem much when one gets used to it.’

‘Nonsense!’ she exclaimed. ‘It IS a good deal.’

‘Very well, then, sweetest Lady Constantine, let it be,’ he said gently.

‘You should not let it be! A polite man would have flatly contradicted me. . . . O I am ashamed of this!’ she added a moment after, with a subdued, sad look upon the ground. ‘I am speaking by the card of the outer world, which I have left behind utterly; no such lip service is known in your sphere. I care nothing for those things, really; but that which is called the Eve in us will out sometimes. Well, we will forget that now, as we must, at no very distant date, forget all the rest of this.’

He walked beside her thoughtfully awhile, with his eyes also bent on the road. ‘Why must we forget it all?’ he inquired.

‘It is only an interlude.’

‘An interlude! It is no interlude to me. O how can you talk so lightly of this, Lady Constantine? And yet, if I were to go away from here, I might, perhaps, soon reduce it to an interlude! Yes,’ he resumed impulsively, ‘I will go away. Love dies, and it is just as well to strangle it in its birth; it can only die once! I’ll go.’

‘No, no!’ she said, looking up apprehensively. ‘I misled you. It is no interlude to me,–it is tragical. I only meant that from a worldly point of view it is an interlude, which we should try to forget. But the world is not all. You will not go away?’

But he continued drearily, ‘Yes, yes, I see it all; you have enlightened me. It will be hurting your prospects even more than mine, if I stay. Now Sir Blount is dead, you are free again,–may marry where you will, but for this fancy of ours. I’ll leave Welland before harm comes of my staying.’

‘Don’t decide to do a thing so rash!’ she begged, seizing his hand, and looking miserable at the effect of her words. ‘I shall have nobody left in the world to care for! And now I have given you the great telescope, and lent you the column, it would be ungrateful to go away! I was wrong; believe me that I did not mean that it was a mere interlude to ME. O if you only knew how very, very far it is from that! It is my doubt of the result to you that makes me speak so slightingly.’

They were now approaching cross-roads, and casually looking up they beheld, thirty or forty yards beyond the crossing, Mr. Torkingham, who was leaning over a gate, his back being towards them. As yet he had not recognized their approach.

The master-passion had already supplanted St. Cleeve’s natural ingenuousness by subtlety.

‘Would it be well for us to meet Mr. Torkingham just now?’ he began.

‘Certainly not,’ she said hastily, and pulling the rein she instantly drove down the right-hand road. ‘I cannot meet anybody!’ she murmured. ‘Would it not be better that you leave me now?–not for my pleasure, but that there may arise no distressing tales about us before we know–how to act in this–this’–(she smiled faintly at him) ‘heartaching extremity!’

They were passing under a huge oak-tree, whose limbs, irregular with shoulders, knuckles, and elbows, stretched horizontally over the lane in a manner recalling Absalom’s death. A slight rustling was perceptible amid the leafage as they drew out from beneath it, and turning up his eyes Swithin saw that very buttoned page whose advent they had dreaded, looking down with interest at them from a perch not much higher than a yard above their heads. He had a bunch of oak-apples in one hand, plainly the object of his climb, and was