The Relentless City/Chapter 13

by Edward Frederic Benson

 

CHAPTER XIII

Some three weeks after this Ginger was occupying the whole of the most comfortable sofa in the rooms of his father occupied by Bertie, and was conversing to him in his usual amiable manner. The rooms wore the look of those belonging to a man shortly to take a journey; there were packets and parcels lying about, a bag gaped open-mouthed on a chair, and Bertie himself was sorting and tearing up papers at a desk, listening with half an ear to the equable flow of Ginger's conversation. He had a good deal to say, and a good deal to ask about, but, with the instinct of the skilled conversationalist, he did not bring out his news in spate, nor ask a succession of questions, but ambled easily, so to speak, up and down the lanes and byways of intercourse, only occasionally emerging on to the highroads.

' It may appear odd,' he was just saying, ' but I never was in these rooms before. Gallio has never asked me here. I am glad to see that he appears to make himself fairly comfortable. I suppose he is at Monte Carlo still. Heard from him, Bertie?'

' Yes, a letter of extreme approbation at my marriage, and a regret that he will be unable to visit America for it. Also a cheque for £500 as a wedding-present. Out of his hardly lost losings, he says.'

' Gallio's in funds now, or was till he went to Monte Carlo,' remarked Ginger. ' He got two hundred thousand for the sale of Molesworth. But he has to settle half of it on you, doesn't he? And where do I come in?'

' You don't, I'm afraid.'

' I think Gallio made a very good bargain,' said Ginger; ' but I think it remains to be seen whether Mr. Palmer didn't make a better.'

' How's that?'

' Whether, with his American spirit of enterprise, he won't begin digging for the fabulous coal which was supposed to exist.'

Bertie looked up.

' Turn Molesworth into a colliery? He won't find it very easy. You see, he has settled it on Amelie, or, rather, is going to on our marriage.'

' By Gad! he does things in style,' said Ginger. ' And you think Amelie would not allow it?'

' I think she would attach some weight to my wishes.'

' Do you feel strongly about it? I thought you were rather in favour of its being done when it was spoken of before.'

' I know; there was an awful need of money. It is a necessity before which sentiment must give way. But now there is not. And my sentiment is rather strong. After all, it has been ours a good long time; and now we can afford to keep the coal underfoot, if it is there at all. Besides, do you know for certain that he has any thought of it?'

' No; Bilton put it into my head,' said Ginger. ' He hinted that Mr. Palmer had made a good bargain. He seemed rather elated at something, so I did not question him further. I don't like elated people. I suppose he had made some good bargain, or done somebody in the eye; that is the American idea of humour. He went off to Davos the other day.'

Bertie again looked up.

' Hasn't he realized the fruitlessness of that yet?' he asked. ' Sybil refused him point-blank, I know; and really, when she follows that up by going out to Davos to coax Charlie back to life, you would have thought that a third party was not—well, exactly of the party.'

' Sybil is an enigma,' said Ginger. ' She went to America in the autumn with the avowed intention of getting married, with Bilton indicated. She comes back in a scurry, refuses him, and instantly constitutes herself life-preserver to Charlie, whom she had also refused. What is she playing at? That's what I want to know.'

Bertie took up a quantity of waste-papers, and thrust them down into the basket.

' She's not playing at anything just now,' he said. ' She's just being a human woman, trying to save the life of a friend. Judy talked to me about it. The only interest in life to Charlie was she, and she is trying to get him to take an interest in life that isn't her!'

' That will require some delicacy of touch,' remarked Ginger.

' It will. She has it—whether enough remains to be seen. Charlie had one foot in the grave when she came back, I'm told; she has taken that out, anyhow.'

' But does she mean to marry him?' asked Ginger. ' I can't believe she will succeed in getting him back to life without, anyhow, holding that out as a prospect.'

' It's really a delicate position,' said Bertie; ' and it is made more interesting by the fact that physically Charlie is so like Bilton. In other respects,' he added, ' they are remarkably dissimilar.'

' Do you like him?'

' No; I have got an awful distaste for him. Why I don't quite know. That rather accentuates it.'

Ginger sat up from his reclining attitude.

' Bertie, I'm awfully interested in one thing, and I haven't seen you since you came back,' he said. ' Was there any—well, any difficulty with Dorothy Emsworth?'

Bertie paused in his labours, divided in his mind as to whether he should tell Ginger or not. He had a great opinion of his shrewdness, but, having himself managed his crisis, paid up, and got back the letter, he did not consider that there was any need for advice or counsel from anybody. So he decided not to tell him.

' She was quite friendly in America,' he said; ' I saw her several times; she even stayed down at Port Washington.'

Ginger, as has been seen, was immensely interested in other people's affairs, having none, as he said, of his own which could possibly interest anybody. On this occasion he could not quite stifle his curiosity.

' I remember you telling me that you once wrote her a very—very friendly letter,' he said.

' Certainly. It is in my possession now. I keep it as an interesting memento.'

Ginger shuddered slightly.

' I should as soon think of keeping a corpse,' he said. ' Burn it. She's rather a brick to have given it you back, though. Sort of wedding-present?'

' Yes, a valuable one.'

' Does she still carry on with Bilton?' asked Ginger.

' I don't know.'

' Well, I hope she didn't show it him before she returned it,' said the other.

January in London, with few exceptions, had been a month of raw and foggy days—days that were bitter cold, with the coldness of a damp cloth, and stuffy with the airlessness of that which a damp cloth covers. Far otherwise was it at Davos, where morning after morning, after nights of still, intense cold, the sun rose over the snow-covered hills, and flamed like a golden giant, rejoicing in his strength, through the arc of crystalline blue. Much snow had fallen in December, but when the fall was past, the triumphant serenity of the brilliant climate reasserted itself. The pines above the long, one-streeted village had long ago shaken themselves clear of their covering, and stood out like large black holes burned in the hillside of white. Day after day the divine windlessness of the high Alpine valley had communicated something of its briskness to those fortunate enough to be there, and the exhilaration of the atmosphere seemed to percolate into minds of not more than ordinary vivacity.

The village itself lies on a gentle down gradient of road, some mile in length, where Alpine chalets jostle with huge modern hotels. Below lies the puffy little railway which climbs through the pinewoods above the town, and communicates in many loops and détours with the larger routes; and straight underneath the centre of the village is the skating-rink, where happy folk all day slide with set purpose on the elusive material, and with great content perform mystic evolutions of the most complicated order. Others, by the aid of the puffy railway, mount to the top of the hills above the town, and spend enraptured days in sliding down again on toboggans to the village of Klosters. Motion, in fact, of any other sort than that of walking is the aim and object of Davos life—an instinct dictated and rendered necessary by the keen exhilaration of the air. At no other place in the world, perhaps, is the sluggard so goaded to physical activity; at no other, perhaps, is the active brain so lulled or intoxicated into quiescence. It lies, in fact, basking and smiling, while the rejuvenated body, free from the low and cramping effects of thought, goes rejoicing on its way.

Charlie, by reason of his malady, had been debarred from taking either much or violent exercise; he had been told to be out always and to be idle usually. This he found extremely easy, for his mother was there to be idle with him, and Sybil was there to furnish entertainment for both. With her usual decision and eye for fitness, she had seen at once that for the present there was only one thing in the world worth doing—namely, skating. She skated extremely badly, but with an enjoyment that was almost pathetic, in consideration of the persistence of ' frequent fall.' Thus, morning after morning, she, setting out at earlier hours, would be followed down to the rink by Charlie and his mother, where they would lunch together, returning to the hotel before dark fell for the cosy brightness of the long winter evenings.

Mrs. Brancepeth was a widow, cultivated, intelligent, and gifted with a discernment that was at times really rather awkward to herself, though never to those to whom she applied it, since she never used what her intuition had enabled her to see, to their discomfort. This gift put her into very accurate possession of the state of affairs between Charlie and Sybil; it was clear to her, that is to say, that Sybil was wiling him back into the desire to live, waking his dormant interests, as if by oft-repeated little electric shocks of her own vitality, charming him back into life. She knew, of course, the state of her son's feelings towards Sybil, and did her the justice of allowing that, not by word or look, direct or indirect, did she ever hold herself out as the prize for which life was worth living. Indeed, Mrs. Brancepeth admired with all the highly-developed power of appreciation that was in her the constant effacement of herself which Sybil practised—effacement, that is, of the personal element, while by all healthy and impersonal channels she tried to rekindle his love for life. Whatever was—so Sybil's gospel appeared to run—was worth attention. Her own falls on the ice were matters for amused comment; the outside edge was per se a thing of beauty; the stately march of the sun was enough to turn one Parsee. Enthusiastic, vitally active as Sybil always had been, it required less penetration than Mrs. Brancepeth possessed to see that her amazing flood of vitality was deliberately outpoured for the sake of Charlie. This was the more evident to her by the fact that Sybil, when alone with her, subsided, sank into herself, and rested from an effort. At times, indeed, when Charlie was not there, she was almost peevish, which, in a woman of equable temper, is a sure sign of some overtaxed function. Such an instance occurred, so Mrs. Brancepeth thought, on an evening shortly before Bilton arrived at Davos. In the six weeks that they had now spent there, the elder woman had got to know the younger very well, to like her immensely, and to respect, with almost a sense of awe, the extreme cleverness with which she managed her affair. The ' affair ' was briefly, to her mind, to make Charlie take a normal interest in life again, without exciting an abnormal interest in herself—to transfer his affection, in fact, from herself to life.

They had dined together that evening at their small table at the Beau Site, and Sybil had traced loops on the tablecloth with a wineglass, and sketched threes and brackets to a centre with the prong of a fork.

' Yes, it sounds silly,' she said, ' but it is the most fascinating thing in the world to try to do anything which you at present believe yourself incapable of doing. I have no eye for colour at all, therefore two years ago I took violently, as Charlie remembers, to painting. I have no eye for balance, therefore now I spend my day in trying to execute complicated movements which depend entirely on it.'

Charlie's eye lit up.

' The quest of the impossible,' he said. ' How I sympathize!'

This was direct enough; with returning health he had got far greater directness. Mrs. Brancepeth waited for Sybil's reply; it came as direct as his.

' Oh, Charlie, you always confuse things,' she said. ' You do not mean the quest of the impossible, but the quest of the improbable. The quest of the improbable is the secret of our striving. Anyone can grasp the impossible; it is merely an affair of the imagination. I can amuse myself by planning out what my life would be if I were a man. What I cannot do is to plan out for myself a successful career as a woman.'

' Surely you have plans enough,' said Mrs. Brancepeth.

' No, no plans,' said Sybil—' desires merely. I have lots of desires. One is control of the outside edge; that is unrealized. Dear Charlie, you look so well this evening; that is another of my plans. It is getting on.'

' He gained two pounds last week,' said his mother.

' How nice! I lost a hundred, because I speculated on the Stock Exchange. It sounds rather grand to speculate, but it wasn't at all grand. What happened was that a pleasant young gentleman here, whose name I don't know, said two days ago to me, “ Buy East Rands.” I bought a hundred. They went down a point. I sold. But I bought many emotions with my hundred pounds. One was that one could get interested in anything, whether one knew what it was or not, as long as one put money into it. And if money interests you, surely anything else will.'

This, too—so Mrs. Brancepeth interpreted it—was a successful red herring drawn across the path. Charlie appeared equally interested.

' Ah, you are wrong there, Sybil,' he said. ' Money in excelsis must be the most interesting thing in the world; there is nothing it cannot do.'

' Oh, it can do everything that is not worth doing,' interrupted Sybil; ' I grant that.'

' And most things that are,' he continued. ' For, except content, which it will not bring you, there is nothing which is not in its sphere.'

' Toothache,' said Sybil promptly. ' I had three minutes' toothache yesterday, and was miserable.'

' Painless extraction.'

' But not the courage for extraction,' said she. ' I always think that extraction is at the root of it. One can get along all right with what one has not got; what one cannot do is to part with something that one has which gives pain.'

Mrs. Brancepeth tapped with the handle of her fork on the table.

' This is irrelevant,' she said; ' the question before the house is the power of money.'

' Dear Mrs. Brancepeth,' said Sybil, ' please don't let us discuss; let us babble. “ In a little while our lips are dumb,” as some depressing poet says. Poets are so often depressing.'

' Sybil is the most prosaic poet I know,' said Charlie. ' She casts her thought really in the mould of poetry, and before it is cold she hammers it to prose. She is the only person I know who has the romantic temperament and is ashamed of it.'

' Not ashamed of it,' cried she; ' but it is not current coin. I hammer the metal into currency. And he calls me prosaic.'

The ice was thin here, so thought Mrs. Brancepeth.

' Everyone has the same difficulty,' she said. ' One has either to hammer one's poetry into prose before it is current or trick out one's prose into poetry. The raw product of any of us—that is what it comes to—does not pass.'

' Ah, but what is the raw product?' said Charlie. ' If one knew, one would use it. ' But no one knows about himself. “ Know thyself ”—the first of mottoes, and, like all mottoes, impossible to act upon.'

' If you know other people, it is a good working basis about one's self,' said Sybil; ' one is very average—that is the important thing to remember.'

' But if everybody is average, why does A single out B?' asked Charlie. ' Why not C or D, up to Z?'

Sybil finished her pudding.

' I don't know,' she said. ' Probably because B comes first—is next to A. About money—of course it will not give you content. Content is a matter of temperament. But it will give you the power to gratify any taste; and, considering how many beautiful things there are in the world, it is a confession of idiocy or of want of taste, which is the same thing, not to be able to be absorbed in some one of them.'

' That is quite true,' said Mrs. Brancepeth; ' and it matters hardly at all what one is absorbed in so long as one is absorbed.

Charlie responded to this.

' And one's power of absorption depends almost entirely on health,' said he.

The evening post came in on this, and not long after Charlie went upstairs to answer certain letters which had come for him, leaving the other two together. Since the arrival of the post, Sybil had become very silent and preoccupied; one letter, in fact, she read three times over, with silent frownings between each perusal. At length she rose, took a turn or two up the room, and spoke.

' I have had disquieting news,' she said; ' and I want advice.'

' Do tell me, dear,' said Mrs. Brancepeth. ' I will do my best.'

' I don't know if you know Mr. Bilton,' she said. ' I have just heard from him; he is starting to-morrow for Davos.'

' Charlie has mentioned him,' said the other.

' You know who he is, then,' said Sybil. ' Shortly before I left England he proposed to me. I refused him. I don't want him to come here; but how is it possible for me to stop him?'

She faced about, and stood opposite the elder woman.

' What am I to do?' she asked. ' He is strong, masterful; I am afraid of him, and it will take a great deal of nervous force out of me. Now, I can't spare that.'

She paused a moment.

' Perhaps I had better say straight out what I mean,' she said. ' I am having rather a hard time as it is; that I take on myself very willingly. But every day leaves me more and more tired when the need for playing up is over. But it is worth it: I should be a very feeble creature if I did not feel that. Because he is getting better, is he not?'

Mrs. Brancepeth laid her hand on Sybil.

' Every day I thank God for what you are doing,' she said, ' and I thank you; but—but I suppose I have been more sanguine than I should. Is there no chance for Charlie?'

Sybil threw her arms out with a hopeless gesture.

' I don't know—literally I don't know. I like him so much that I can't offer him only liking; and I don't know that I have anything more to offer him. It is all very difficult. I don't suppose there is a woman in the world who knows herself so badly as I do. And I used to think I was so decisive, so clear cut. What is happening to me?'

Mrs. Brancepeth looked at her with a wonderful tenderness and pity. She had often noticed how completely she was in the clutch of her temperament, how the mood of the moment completely blotted out all other landmarks and guiding-posts which experience from without and her own character from within might have been supposed to be of some directing value in perplexities. But it was not so with her; in such things she was a child, ruled by the impulse—not led by the reason, nor steered by any formed character. With her the present moment so blotted out the past that all precedents, all warnings, all points which ninety-nine grown-up people out of a hundred have to help their decisions, were with her simply non-existent. If the present moment was pleasant, she abandoned herself to childish delight; if perplexing, she was the prey of insoluble doubts. She had a passion for analysis, but her analysis, brilliant as it often was, was as fruitless as the Japanese cherry. It was the process of thought which she loved to dissect, and having dissected it, she threw it away. All this Mrs. Brancepeth saw—saw, too, that Sybil's was a nature to which it was no use to preach principles; the practical dealing with the concrete instance was all that could help her.

' Tell me more about Mr. Bilton,' she said.

' He is dominating,' said Sybil. ' I was greatly attracted by him. Then he did something disgusting, or so I thought it, and I was disillusioned. I even began to dislike him. But he has force, and it will need force on my part to fight him. What will the result be? I shall have less force to fight Charlie's microbes for him.'

' Yes, that is what you are doing,' said Mrs. Brancepeth softly.

' And even here, even when I see most clearly how much better he is getting, I ask myself whether I am doing wisely or not,' continued Sybil. ' What will the end be? Is he filled with certain hopes which I cannot say will ever be realized? And what if he is disappointed of them?'

There was no reply, and after a minute she went on.

' Mr. Bilton will arrive in two days,' she said; ' he will come to this hotel. It is impossible for me to cut him, not to recognise him. He is quite extraordinarily like Charlie, by the way. I must speak to him when he speaks to me. I must behave decently. And I know—oh, how well I know it!—he will interest me again. I shall be forced to be interested. There is that about him—some force, some relentless sort of machinery that goes grinding on, pulverizing what gets in its way.'

Mrs. Brancepeth rose.

' Now, dear, be quiet,' she said. ' You are working yourself up about it. Don't do that. Don't whip up your imagination on the subject. You take things too vividly.'

Sybil smiled rather hopelessly.

' That does not help matters,' she said; ' some people take them not vividly enough. I am myself, you are yourself; the broad lines of each of us are inexorably laid down for us. All we can do is not to make a very shocking mess of them. We are all unsatisfactory. No, I don't think you are; you are very nice and restful. Now, what am I to do—not about Bilton, I mean, but now this minute. That is always so important.'

Mrs. Brancepeth laughed.

' And that is so like you,' she said. ' Go to bed, dear, and dream as vividly as you can of the outside edge.'

Bilton arrived two days afterwards, and, as was quite natural, paid a call on his friends before dinner in their sitting-room. As chance would have it, neither Charlie nor his mother were in, and he found Sybil alone. She rose and shook hands with him as he entered, but gave him no smile.

' I was surprised to get your letter,' she said; ' I thought you were too busy to come out to this very idle place.'

' I chose it for its idleness,' he said. ' I was very tired, and I have a busy time ahead of me again. It is economical to spend a fortnight in complete idleness rather than let your work suffer for a year.'

He paused a moment.

' That was my excuse,' he said; ' I had also a reason.'

Sybil felt a sudden anger with him, which flared up and died down again as he went on.

' I am glad to find you alone,' he said, ' because I wanted to see you. I had to see you; I was thirsty for the sight of you. But do not be afraid; I shall not make myself importunate; I shall say nothing to offend you; I shall not entreat you by word or look. I just wanted—wanted to see you: that is all.'

He spoke rather low, and rather more slowly than his wont; but next moment he resumed the ordinary tone of his speech.

' I came here a couple of years ago,' said he; ' and I carried away with me an extraordinary sense of coolness and rest. I think one's brain goes to sleep here. We Americans need that; we have awful insomnia of the brain. I want to go sliding on a silly sledge down a steep place; I want to fall about on skates, and not read the paper.'

Sybil laughed; there had been a certain modesty and good taste in his first speech that had rather touched her, and from that he had gone straight to ordinary converse. The assurance of the harmlessness of his intentions seemed to her very genuine. As a matter of fact, it was profoundly calculated, and produced just the effect he wanted; for he particularly desired to be admitted without embarrassment or delay into the others' party.

To Charlie's mind, this addition—for though Bilton never seemed to intrude himself, yet he usually was there—was nothing more at first than a slight nuisance. More than that, it could not be called, since he knew of Sybil's complete and final rejection of Bilton as a lover, and it was not consonant with the sweetness of his own nature to be rendered jealous and exacting about her friends. But by degrees—so gradual that he could not notice the growth of the feeling, but only register the fact that it had grown—he became aware of uneasiness of mind, which, as it increased, diminished from the great content in which he had passed the earlier weeks of their stay at Davos. Also he began to realize that in the shade of his mind there had grown up unconsciously a hope—or, if not a hope, the possibility of the hope—that he himself might find in her some day more than a friend. He had often asked himself before whether he still cherished and watered the tender seedling, and as often he had honestly told himself that he did not. But Bilton's coming, and the terms he was on with Sybil, cast a light into his own dark places, and he knew that that hope was still not rooted up from his mind. And, realizing this, he realized how vital such a hope was to him.

Sybil, too, during the ten days following Bilton's arrival, had insensibly changed in her attitude towards him. Having definitely decided that he should not be her lover, she speedily began to find in him excellences as a friend which she had scarcely realized before. As a lover, she had found him wanting; a certain coarseness of nature in him prevented her from receiving him on that footing. But once off that ground, this coarseness almost ceased to offend her; at any rate, transferred on to the less intimate plane, it ranked a ' minus ' of the same calibre as one of his numerous ' pluses.' Among these, his practical qualities greatly appealed to her—his quickness at grasping the salient points of any question; his very firm hold on concrete affairs, from the quickest and securest way of tying a bootlace to his lucid exposition of American finance, as typified in that Napoleon, Lewis Palmer, or his knowledge in his own business of what constituted a play that would draw. On a hundred occasions every day she had some exhibition of this brought to her notice; in whatever he did or said he showed efficiency. That quality, as she had settled, was not one to be loved, but socially she delighted in it. Moreover, the force she had feared seemed to be in abeyance. He made no demands on her nervous energies that she recognised as demands.

Now, love, though proverbially blind, is often very prone to see something which has no existence whatever, and before long Charlie began to conjure up a very complete phantom, which would have done credit to a much finer imagination than he really possessed, had not he viewed the situation through the eyes of a lover, to whose vision all is intensified. He saw, what was true, that Sybil listened with very genuine interest to what Bilton had to say; he saw her an eager pupil of that excellent skater; he saw, if some expedition was projected, that she left all the arrangements of sleighs and food in his hands. To the unbiassed observer nothing could have been more natural, for he talked well on subjects that interested her, he gave her valuable aid towards accomplishing the elusive outside back edge, and his arrangements in expeditions were admirable; for sleighs were punctual, and nothing was forgotten out of the luncheon-basket. But Charlie was not unbiassed, and the conclusions that slowly and silently formed themselves in his mind were both untrue in the abstract and in the concrete unjust to her. He was still sufficiently young to have an attack of childishness, and he was quite sufficiently in love with her to be a prey to jealousy.

The second week of Bilton's stay had passed, and still he dropped no hint about his imminent return, and on this particular morning, after a rather worried week, rendered not more easy because he kept his worries strictly to himself, Charlie had just returned rather gloomily from a visit to his doctor.

During the last ten days he had gone down a little in weight, and, though the doctor would have preferred it otherwise, he reminded him that he must have ups and downs; no cure was uninterrupted progress. But this, piled on the top of his other cares, which were rendered harder to bear by a couple of days of south wind, instead of the cold purity of windlessness, unduly depressed him, and Sybil, coming out of the hotel to the sheltered corner of the veranda which he usually occupied in the morning, found him somewhat listless and dejected. But, with tact which had often succeeded before, she affected not to notice it, and discoursed on indifferent subjects.

' Such a bore!' she said. ' The road down the valley is too soft for sleighing, and the rink is too sloppy for skating.'

Charlie brightened up a little; he seemed to have seen much less of her lately.

' So you're going to have an idle day,' he said. ' Sit and talk to me.'

' Well, we are going out almost immediately,' she said, ' just to go down the Schwester toboggan-run, which they say is still possible. I wish you could come, Charlie, but there's no way of getting up except walking.'

Charlie instantly froze into himself.

' I'm afraid that's quite impossible,' he said. ' You're going with Bilton, I suppose.'

' Yes; I rather think he's waiting for me.'

Charlie registered to himself the fact that she had not asked for the doctor's report of him, though Monday was his regular day for being overhauled.

' Never keep people waiting,' he said, and opened a book. Then his better disposition came to his aid.

' I hope it will be possible for you to get a good run,' he said cordially. ' It is horrid, this weather, is it not?'

' Horrid—quite horrid!' she said. ' Well, good-bye; your mother will be out directly.'

He sat there after she had left him, with book open, but not reading. A pale, watery sun, instead of the golden monarch enthroned in cloudless blue, peered like a white plate through the clouds blown up by the south wind, and, instead of a dry and vivifying air, the atmosphere was loaded with moisture, the eaves dripped with the melting snow, and every now and then, with a whisper and a thud, some sheet would detach itself form a house-roof and plunge into the roadway below. Instead of presenting an expanse of crystalline whiteness, the snow-fields were stained and yellowish to the eye; hideous corners of corrugated roofs showed where the coverlet of white had slipped; all the raw discomfort of a thaw was in the air. To Charlie, both owing to his physical condition and his unspoken trouble, the heavy chilliness of the day was peculiarly oppressive; his mother also was detained indoors, and for an hour he was prey to the gloomiest reflections. It was all no use, so he told himself; since October he had heartily tried with all his power both to get better and to recapture the normal joy of living. But now, as so often happened, he had begun to slip back again; next week no doubt would tell a further tale of hardly-earned ground lost, and week would follow week, and he would slip back and back. Even if he pulled through, even if he became strong again, what was there in life for him worth recovering for? He had thought—deluded himself into thinking—that perhaps Sybil might come to care for him, but with sudden bitter intuition he guessed that he was really no nearer winning her love than he had been before he had been taken ill. Great compassion, the divine womanly instinct to help a man, had brought her out here; the improvement in his health, the successful combating of his disease, was due to that. But it was but a bitter gift she had brought him; it was as if she had brought him through some illness only to give him over to the hangman at the last. And she had not asked about the doctor's report. That seemed to him in his disordered frame of mind to clinch the matter. Instead she had gone off tobogganing with Bilton. True, she had refused him in the autumn, but how many marriages have been prefaced by that?

Charlie shivered slightly, and looked about him for a rug, for the damp of the day made a man chilly, where the dryness of far greater cold would have been but warming and invigorating. But he had not brought one out, and, saying to himself that he would go in to fetch one in a minute, he still sat on, looking for a break in the clouds that encompassed him. But he could not find one; the taste had gone out of the world again.

The Schwester run had been in unexpectedly good order, and Sybil did not get back to the hotel till late in the afternoon. The weather had cleared since noon, and about twilight the curtain of clouds had been dispersed, the south wind had ceased, and the splendid frosty stars again hung embroidered on the velvet of the night. Instead of plunging through the snow, before they reached the hotel their footsteps went crisply on the crackly crust, and the steel runners of their trailing toboggans sang like tea-kettles as they slid over the re- frozen surface. Already her spirits had been high, and, with the increased exhilaration of the air, they rose to nonsense point.

' Climate, climate,' she was saying—' how is it that people worship money and brains and beauty, and never worship climate, which is the one thing in the world that matters? Of course, you don't think that, because you live in New York, which is unbearable three-quarters of the year and intolerable the rest—isn't that it?—and get accustomed to doing without climate, just as you train oysters to live out of water until you are ready to eat them. But to me nothing but climate is really of any importance. I am so much better than when I came here; and I was quite well when I came,' she added.

' It seems to have suited Charlie Brancepeth very well,' said Bilton.

' Yes, he's much better; soon he'll be quite well. He gets more like you, Mr. Bilton, as he regains his health, every day. It really is very odd, because I don't suppose two people were ever so unlike in character. But the climate here has been good for your character as well as Charlie's lungs.'

' Have I improved? I'm delighted to hear it. I thought I was a hopeless case.'

' Not at all—no more hopeless than Charlie. You have developed a side your character which I hardly suspected you of having, and are beginning to take perfectly frivolous pursuits with great seriousness. You were much more annoyed at losing ten seconds to-day in that spill than you were at losing your cigarette-case.'

' I have been a pupil, that's all,' he said; ' I have been well taught since I have been here.'

'Tanti complimenti, ' said she. ' Really, when you came I was afraid you would be absorbed in telegrams and bargains and bulls and bears. But you have not; you have played very nicely. How much longer do you stop?'

They had come to the hotel, and were passing the big squares of light cast by the hall windows. He dropped the rope of his toboggan as she asked this, and stopped to pick it up, looking her full in the face.

' I shall go when I am told,' he said—' not a day before.'

She looked at him, and understood. It was the first personal word he had said to her since the little interview on her arrival, but it was so modest again, so self-obliterating, that it did not offend her with a sense that he had broken his word when he promised not to speak to her again on intimate subjects. It was sufficient to remind him of it very gently, just to cool him off, so to speak.

' We should all miss you, I am sure,' she said.

Charlie did not appear at dinner that evening. He had caught a little chill, it appeared, in the morning, and had gone to bed in a good deal of discomfort, with a somewhat high temperature. Mrs. Brancepeth, though she would not confess to any anxiety, yet felt anxious, and as soon as dinner was over went off to see how he was. She came back before many minutes were over, and signalled to Sybil across the salon, who got up at once and followed her.

' Is there anything wrong?' she asked.

' Yes; I have asked Dr. Thaxter to come and see him. His temperature has risen again. But he asked me if he could see you for a moment; I wish you would go. He is very restless, and I think you might quiet him; for you know,' she said, looking at her, ' I think you can do more for him than any doctor.'

Sybil stood there a minute, biting her lip. She had a physical repulsion to illness, which, though it shocked her that she should feel it, yet dominated her. Since she had taken Charlie in hand, she had had daily to wrestle with it, and though, owing to his very satisfactory progress, it had become easier to overcome, yet it was always there. But she decided almost immediately.

' Yes, I will go,' she said, then paused. ' Does he look terrible? Will it shock me?' she asked.

Mrs. Brancepeth's eyes lit up with a momentary indignation.

' Ah, what does that matter?' she exclaimed involuntarily. ' No, dear, I did not mean to say that. I know your horror of illness. But go to him; it will not shock you. He is looking rather flushed; his eyes are very bright.'

She took Sybil's hands in hers.

' Oh, make him better, make him better!' she said; ' make him want to live!'

Entreaty vibrated in her voice, and her hands trembled. Sybil felt immensely sorry for her, and her sorrow overcame her repugnance at what lay before her. Her horror for illness was of the same character as a child's fear of the dark—unreasonable, but overmastering. But in the presence of this mother's anxiety it was conquered for the moment.

' I will do what I can,' she said—' I will do what I honestly can. Are you coming with me?'

' No; he wants to see you alone.' And, as she spoke, a sudden pang of jealousy and rebellion struck her. Why should she who would give her life for him with thankful willingness be powerless to help him, while half that love from another woman might prove so efficacious, could she but exert its strength? But next moment that was gone; no other thought but the mother's yearning for her son was there.

Sybil went from her up the passage to Charlie's room, and entered softly. At that moment, hearing perhaps the rustle of her dress, he turned his head on his pillow, and looked towards the door, and in dead silence for a moment their eyes met. His face was very much flushed; his eyes, as his mother had said, were very bright, but bright with the burning of fever; and the indescribable sharpness and hardness of feature that comes with illness was there. But as Sybil looked, no horror was hers, and no shrinking. All she knew was that a man, suffering and ill, lay there—a man to whom she was the reason of living and the sun of life; a man whom she had known long, liked always, loved never. In his eyes there burned not only fever, but, as he saw her, the unquenchable light of love in all its dumb faithfulness. She had seen it often before, and had rejected it, but now it smote upon her heart. Something within her melted; and as a butterfly cracks its chrysalis, and emerges weak, hardly yet conscious of the new life, of the iridescence of its own wings, of the sunlight which till now has been hidden from it by that sheath of its shell, so something new trembled on the threshold of her heart—pity—which knew not yet that with which it was entwined. And with the waking of herself within her came the knowledge of what to do and say intuitively, because she was at last a woman.

She came quickly across the room, smiling at him.

' Charlie, Charlie, this will never do,' she said. ' I leave you alone for one day, and you instantly behave naughtily like this. I am ashamed of you.'

' Sybil, it is good of you to come and see me,' he said; ' I wanted to see you so much.'

Then the inevitable querulousness of illness mastered him.

' Oh, I am so uncomfortable,' he said—' so hot and feverish.' And he flung his arm outside the bedclothes.

' Poor old Charlie!' she said; ' poor old fellow! It is a bore. Now, put that arm back at once. There. Now, you are not going to talk to me now, but I am going to make you ever so much more comfortable, put the pillow for you so, and you are going to see the doctor, and then you are going to sleep. Headache? Poor old boy! And I shall sit here and talk to you till the doctor comes.'

She drew a chair to the bedside, and he turned more over in bed so that he looked directly at her.

' Oh, I'm ill, I'm ill,' he said; ' and it was quite my own fault. I sat outside this morning without a rug, and I knew I was catching a chill. And I didn't care. You see, you didn't care. You never asked me what the doctor's report was this morning, and I—I determined not to care either. I am sorry; I shouldn't have said that.'

Sybil's hand trembled as she arranged the bedclothes, which he had thrown off.

' I was a brute,' said she, ' and——— ' She paused. ' Charlie, you must get well,' she cried suddenly.

He lay quite still a moment, with breath coming quickly.

' You said that as if you cared,' he said.