er of
things. Pray let there be no misconception on that point. She belonged
to the ideal order, she belongs to it still."

"Ah, my dear, my dear!" Katharine almost cried. His perversity hurt her
a little too much so that the small, upspringing flame of decent pride
was quenched.

"Yes," he went on, "there was my initial, my cardinal, mistake. For I
was a traitor to all that was noblest and best in me, when I persuaded
myself, and weakly permitted you to persuade me, that a loveless
marriage is better than a love in which marriage is impossible,--that
Lady Constance Quayle, poor little soul, bought, paid for, and my
admitted property, could fill Helen's place,--though Helen was--and I
intend her to remain so, for I care for her enough to hold her honour
as sacred as I do your own--forever inaccessible."

Lady Calmady staggered to her feet.

"That is enough, Richard," she said. "That is enough. If you have more
to say, in pity leave it until to-morrow."

The young man looked at her strangely.

"You are ill, mother," he said.

"No, no, I am only broken-hearted," she replied. "And a broken heart,
alas! never killed so healthy a body as mine. I shall survive this--and
more perhaps. God knows. Do not vex yourself about me, Dickie.--Go,
live your life as it seems fit to you. I have not the will, even had I
the right, to restrain you. And meanwhile I will be the steward of your
goods, as, long ago, when you were a child and belonged to me wholly.
You can trust me to be faithful and discreet, at least in financial and
practical matters. If you ever need me, I will come even to the ends of
the earth. And should the desire take you to return, here you will find
me.--And so, good-bye, my darling. I am foolishly tired. I grow
lightheaded, and dare not linger, lest in my weakness I say that which
I afterwards regret."

She passed to the door and went out, without looking back.

Left to himself Richard Calmady crossed to the writing-table, swung
himself up into the revolving-chair, and remained there sorting and
docketing papers far into the night. But once, stooping, with
long-armed adroitness, to unlock the lowest drawer of the table, a
madness of disgust towards the unsightliness of his own person seized
on and tore him.

"Oh! God, God, God," he cried aloud, in the extremity of his passion,
"why hast Thou made me thus?"

And to that question, as yet, there was no answer, though it rang afar
over the sleeping park, a