Chapter I

IT was time for night prayers; but the two women still sat motionless. Maggie held Marion's hand in hers. They had talked, or rather Maggie had, for the most part, sentence by sentence, slowly — with long pauses — ever since Sir John had gone, three hours ago: they had supped, after a fashion, still in the music-room; the darkness was still lit only by the two candles that had lighted the little supper-table, now guttering down to their last inch. Maggie had had fits of crying, and was now quieter: Marion had been quiet throughout. Her lips had been so dry that she could scarcely speak. Maximilian had been shut up in the kitchen: Maggie had remembered to see to that.

There was no hope at all that her voice would come back, at least such a voice as she had had a month ago. Sir John had been kind and sympathetic, and had explained, in as simple language as he could, exactly what was wrong: but neither of the two could have given an intelligible account of it. There had been a contraction in the muscles of the throat and larynx, and it was of such a nature that although hoarseness of speech would no doubt almost entirely disappear, the singing voice could never return. That was the real point: Marion's operatic career was at an end. That was the central point round which her attention swung, now wandering off to this or that effeet, but always brought back as by a tug on a string. She strove to realise it by dwelling on details — that piano-score of Lohengrin for instance that still lay on the end of the piano, and could go back into the music-chest forever. That dress laid away upstairs — (she had brought down with her to Standing, in a kind of childish pleasure, the costume of the First Act) — would not be worn again: these exercise books that still lay tumbled on the floor would never be needed again. Yet even these details continued to evade her: the fact remained. With regard to the great correlative facts — the thoughts of Max and of religion and of her future — she could not discover her own attitude; she did not know what she would do; although in the one single instance an hour ago, when she had suddenly broken down and dashed herself face downwards, away from Maggie, on to the arm of her chair, it had been with a passionate longing for Max to be there and to reassure and comfort her. But she did not know what she herself would do. There seemed nothing: he must now do it all. The fact remained that she would never sing Elsa again, never feel her soul beating up on the wings of sound, never again come forward to meet the storm and thunder of applause.... She would never sing Elsa again.... She would never sing Elsa again. Her eyes wandered and dwelt among the dark spaces of the high roof: and her dry lips lay apart. She would never sing Elsa again.

Maggie's temperament, however, had already begun to recover itself, though as yet she showed no outward signs of it, and still sat desolate by her friend's side. Her tears had been passionate, while Marion had only cried very slowly and very little; the pain had been sharper, while Marion's was rather tiiat of a bruise: and now already there were beginning to come in the elder woman's mind flashes and sparks of thought and hope for the future: her mental tissue, so to speak, cut more cleanly, was healing more swiftly. She had said a little about the Will of God: Marion had not moved or answered; she had said that they would both go abroad for a long time: Marion had not moved or answered: she had wondered aloud whether the ordinary stage might not be a possibility: Marion had looked at her at that, but had shaken her head, as if she had already considered this.

" But, my dearest, why not? You can act beautifully, you know. Every one says "

" No."

Maggie had fallen to patting her friend's hand again.

Presently she began once more.

" The thing to do, my darling, is just to resign ourselves to God's Holy and Adorable Will."

61 A blessing in disguise, no doubt! " Marion whispered; and the bitterness in her voice was appalling.

" Yes, my dearest," flowed on Maggie serenely, " that is the way to look at it. I am so glad you can think of it as that, already. We shall be very happy together, we two. We'll go abroad together and see things for a bit, if Sir John will give you leave to tiavel — to Switzerland, perhaps, and then down to the Italian lakes, later: and then back here, or to London, if you prefer it, for the winter. And then we must set ourselves to find out what it is that our Divine Lord wants of us: He'll find something for us to do, depend upon it. Father George preached a beautiful sermon on that very point, on the Sunday before we left London. I wish you'd been there. But never mind, I'm sure that all will be for the best. Good gracious me! It's a quarter to ten, and we've forgotten all about night prayers.... Why, where are you going, my darling? Are you going to ring? "

" I think I shall go to my room," said Marion, very upright and pale, but speaking without emotion, " and leave you to have night prayers. I don't think "

her voice suddenly ceased and her lips closed.

" You don't think what, my pet? "

" I don't think God wants me," said Marion.

Then a rather dreadful little thing happened. The door, it seemed, was not properly shut; and as the girl spoke, it moved a little. Then a small black and furry form came round it on tip-toe, exactly as it had entered the dressing-room at Covent Garden a few months ago; only it was now a little cat.

Maggie heard a swift-drawn breath of pain, and sprang up. Then she was out of the room with the little cat clawing, in furious anger, at her ear and neck.

When Maggie came back from mass next morning, after a singularly miserable night, she found Marion already down and dressed. She began expostulations.

"I don't think it's much good bothering about my health any more," said Marion detachedly, " at any rate, I'm not going to. And I've ordered the pony-cart in twenty minutes. I must go up by the nine-thirty: there are a hundred things to do."

Maggie burst into remonstrances.

" Yes, I know," said Marion; " but I'm going, for all that. I've sent a wire to Mr. Harrison. I must tell him at once: it's the only thing to do. I shall be back by the six-fifty. Would you mind sending to meet me? No: I must go alone. You mustn't come, please. No; not even to the station."

It was a bewildering day that Maggie passed, all alone, except for her rapid excursions into the kitchen and the sacristy. She spent not only her " hour," but considerably more, in church, though never longer than ten or twelve minutes at a time; since she was thoroughly restless, and remembered continually small things that needed, she thought, to be done elsewhere. For instance, she remembered Rhadamanthus too much altogether for his peace of mind, and was constantly shifting him, first out of doors because he liked the air, then indoors because she thought it might rain, then out of doors again because the air was good for him anyhow; and finally under a little tool-shed, where she forgot him for three hours. In a similar spirit she ordered and counterordered things in the kitchen till Mrs. Grant simply ceased to answer her. Finally, by the time that Marion was expected home again, she had informed Father Denny, Mrs. Grant, Jenny, Mr. Cholmondeley and the grocer's boy, binding each under the strictest confidence, that Marion had lost her voice, and had gone to London to see about it.

Yet beneath all this turmoil of activity she had a bitterly sore heart. It had been like a blow in the face to her when Marion had said last night that God no longer seemed to want her; and, though she had covered it up with a multitude of words, thereby postponing night prayers for another twenty minutes, she had not in the least forgotten what had been said; and it is probably true to say that this gave her considerably more pain than even the tragedy of yesterday. Honestly, exterior things did not affect her very long or very deeply; she had a remarkably detached spirit in such matters: but interior things hurt her all the more. If Marion had been dying, Maggie certainly would have cried abundantly by the bedside, but if the girl's " dispositions," as she would have said, had been good, by the time of the funeral she would have been almost triumphantly content. Such was her nature.

She was once more at the window as the pony-cart drew up; and at the gate before Marion was out.

" Well, my dearest? " she said.

"Well?" said Marion.

She followed her into the parlour. The girl stood motionless on the hearth, still with that pale, steady look she had had this morning. Maximilian came up and rubbed against her, purring: but she paid no attention.

" Well? " said Maggie again.

Marion turned and looked at her.

" I don't think there's much to say," she said. " I did all that I meant to do. I saw Mr. Harrison and told him. I suppose he was very kind. Certainly he meant to be. I saw von Giinther." (Her voice shook for an instant, but steadied again. ) " He cried. So did his wife. I even saw Sir John again, to make absolutely certain. I saw one or two other people, too. They were all very... very kind."

Maggie advanced imploring hands.

" Ah! don't touch me! " said Marion. Then she went straight to the door and opened it; but turned before she went out. " By the way," she said, " do you think Maximilian could go away for a bit? I... I can't quite bear him."

At supper she was very silent; and Maggie felt very nearly desperate. All day long she had waited for this return, promising herself that a good talk would make things better: she had ordered particular dishes, and Marion scarcely tasted them. She had covered the piano with an enormous baize cloth, thinking that somehow this would make things easier, and had pushed the music-chest further into the corner: and Marion seemed to notice nothing. She made remarks about Rhadamanthus, and the sacristy, and gave a full weather report of the entire day from the moment Marion had left to the moment she returned; and the girl scarcely answered. Yet, exteriorly, the scene was one of extreme peace and sweetness. It was dark by the time that supper was finished; only the uncurtained windows still showed liquid depths of luminous sky, blue, up in the zenith, fading to green westwards; and against this sky the apse of the church and the glowing spot seen through the tall lancet of glass. Within, too, the room was peaceful and sweet. Maggie had picked roses to-day, in intervals, and had filled bowl after bowl of glass and silver. A silver bowl, crammed with tea-roses was in the middle of the supper-table between the candles; and another on the end of the piano; and a row of slender glass vases on the mantelpiece held each a scarlet flower. The whole room, with its high pointed roof, its dark beams, its clean whitewash, its charming furniture, and, above all, its sense of space, seemed the very home of serenity.

When Jenny had brought in the coffee and gone out again, Maggie once more turned to her friend, to try again: but Marion was already looking at her, steadily and observantly, as if to appraise and analyse her capacities. The girl's eyes were reflective, and, it seemed to Maggie, a little hard.

" My darling — why do you look "

Marion stood up.

" Yes," she said, as if to herself, " it had better be done with. Sit in that chair, Maggie dear; and let me talk to you. I've got something to say."

Ill

For the first moment, while she did not speak, leaning forward she took one of Maggie's hands in hers, as if to caress it. Then, as if remembering herself, she dropped it almost abruptly, and sat back.

" But " expostulated Maggie, who liked the holding of hands.

" I must tell you first," said Marion, even a little harshly. "No, my dear, I mean it." (She paused.) " Maggie," she said, " I am going to hurt you horribly."

She saw that the shock, which she intended to give, had reached the other. Maggie blinked for an instant, as if flinching from a blow.

" I don't understand, dearest," she began; and her voice trembled a little.

Marion stood up and passed behind the chair she had risen from.

" Please sit still, Maggie dear. I... I don't want to see your face. And please say nothing till I've done. Yes: I really mean that."

Then, in her low hoarse voice, walking rapidly and uneasily up and down the room behind her friend's chair; she began her tale.

" I must begin a long way back: I really don't quite know when. I suppose it began at Munich. It began with my religion. I don't know how it was; but everything seemed to go out of it — everything that was the least consolation or happiness. I did all the regular things, I suppose: I persevered and so on. But it was not the slightest good. The thing was just dead "

" But, my dear " began Maggie, completely bewildered.

" Maggie: please don't interrupt till I've done. I really mean it. You can say what you will, afterwards."... (She resumed her pacing.)

" Well: that went on and on. In fact it's going on still: and I began to feel desperate. It's quite true I got interested in other things — my music for instance. And I can't see that I was wrong. If Almighty God gives one anything, I imagine He wants one to use it: and to enjoy it, too. I shall always think that. He can't be meaner than... than you would be; or even I. So I got interested; and I began not to mind so much that my religion didn't mean anything. And then — then the point came."

She stopped at the end of the room nearest the piano. Then she suddenly wheeled round abruptly.

" Well: I may as well say it straight out. I... I feel in love. (No: don't interrupt; I can't bear it. I must finish.) I suppose you can guess who with.

Well, anyhow it was Max Merival. And he with me. I can't say exactly when it began. Honestly I don't know. I suppose it must have been in Scotland. If it was, I didn't know it at the time, anyhow."

(Her voice grew more and more abrupt. It was like the firing of little sentences, rather than a continuous narrative. )

" He proposed to me — oh! months ago. At the end of last year: I wouldn't listen to him at the time. At least I told him I would give him no answer till I had sung at Covent Garden: and that if I failed, I would never see him again. I meant every word of it. I don't know why I said it. I suppose it was that I thought I must have something to offer him. Well: he came round to my dressing-room after the first performance. I accepted him....

" Then, you remember you made me promise I wouldn't see him alone without your leave. Well: I haven't kept that promise. But I have tried. I haven't failed very often. I nearly told you, again and again: but each time I thought I wouldn't fail again: and I didn't want to upset you. I just say that to show that I wasn't exactly a deliberate liar. My... my intentions were good, in the main.

" Now we're coming to the point."

The hoarse voice failed for a few seconds. The girl took a turn and a half before she spoke again. She continued, with her back to Maggie, speaking very rapidly.

" The chief difficulty is his people. They would think such a marriage terribly below him. They've... they've got an exaggerated idea of themselves. So Max says. Yet he's dependent on them absolutely.

In a month or so, perhaps sooner — he's going to watch his opportunity — he's going to ask his father to put him into some profession; and then, as soon as he's independent I'm going to marry him. That's absolutely settled. I saw him again to-day.

"That's absolutely settled," she repeated. "But... but this is the thing that you'll mind most. I'm not going to ask him to make the necessary promises. I'm not going to be married in a Catholic church. (Maggie: for God's sake don't move or speak till I've done.) Yes: I know precisely what I'm doing. I've consulted two priests. They've warned me fairly. I know that in the eyes of the Catholic Church I shan't be married at all. I can't help it. God has not been fair to me. He took away all joy in my religion years ago. And now He's taken away everything else. But He shan't take away Max."

A dead silence followed her last defiant sentence. There was no fire on the hearth; there was no breeze outside: there was no sound of wheels: and the servants were quiet in the kitchen. Then there sounded a little rustle from the chair where Maggie had sat motionless: and Marion wheeled swiftly round. The next moment she was kneeling on the ground; her head was buried in her friend's lap; and a hand was gently stroking her hair.

" Oh! my dearest," murmured a broken voice over her head, " why didn't you tell me before? Why didn't you tell me before? But I suppose you couldn't. And I suppose Mr. Merival told you not to. But if only you had! — Well: of course it can't really happen. A thing like that couldn't happen to my dear girl. But how dreadful that it should have come even to thinking of it. I understand so well: I really do: though I'm a stupid old woman: but I wasn't always. I mean I wasn't always an old woman; not that I wasn't always stupid. And it must have been my fault that you couldn't tell me: I was too selfish and... and thinking about myself "

The girl's face looked up in agony.

" Maggie! Maggie! "

A hand pressed down her head again.

"There! there! just have your cry out. It'll do you good, my dearest: and you'll feel better. Well, that's all I can say just now about it. I must think what must be done. And you must tell me more about it, by and by; and why you can't ask Mr. Merival to be married properly and make the promises. My darling: I do know what you must have been going through; and now on the top of all the rest has come this other thing. Well, you know, our Divine Lord wouldn't have sent you all this "

" You don't understand," murmured the girl.

" No, my darling, I expect I don't, really. But I'm trying to. Indeed I'm trying to; and I shall, a lot better, presently, when I've had a good think over it all, and said my prayers. We'll have night prayers earlier to-night — Mrs. Grant won't mind, I'm sure, for once. And you'll stay for them to-night, won't you? And perhaps we'll have a little talk again, afterwards; and perhaps we won't. There! my dearest: don't cry so much."

Maggie leaned over, with the tears streaming down her own cheeks, and kissed the back of the girl's neck.