Books and Bookmen

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 23, 9 June 1906, Page 19

Books and Bookmen

“A DARK LANTERN." Elisabeth Robins; William Heinraau. London.

That this novel has been written by one of the feminine sex is written large all over it. Yet it is so admirable written that one regrets that the writer, like so many of her sex in the literary field, should Ito use a nautieal phrase) sail the boat ’ Reserve" so close to the wind as to make it an almost impossible feat for it ever to make port again. The sensational, problematical, and analytical novel we have had ad nauseam, the viviseetional is a little too mueh. The story opens where Katharine Dereham. fresh from her French Convent, is making her debut in society at a large party given by Indy .Peterborough, her godmother. with whom she has lived as an adopted daughter since the death of H r mother, and during the protracted absence of her father. Colonel Dereham, who is stationed with his regiment in India. Lady Peterborough is a great leader of the society known in London as the Vp'”r Smart Set. Several Royal ties have honoured Lady Peterborough with their presente on'this occasion: amongst them Prince Anton Waldenstein. who is presented by Lady Peterborough to Katharine.

My god-da B ghter, your Highness," Lady 1 e.erboronxh had said hurriedly, and tunfed to see who next, after iter Grace of Laulh^noesr ~CaW *** a,, ’ >WCTI a word with the

. The foreigner, hardly looking, bowed with German military precision, and then ills eye suddenly fixed. -Oh,” he said, -did f youxswerea t you at the last firawiugKoomY — *

Yes.” answered the girl. "Of o.«»rse you don't remember m——” “I do remember yon.'* •'No! where was 1?” •"You stood behind the Princess Marie, ai»d youf uniform was

•"So:' which he pronounced “Znf with that exception his English was quite unforeign—"So! you did notice.” h- laughed- ‘ W'as that because I stared so?" "Nor al! l»eeause of that." she smiled back, "though if made me more nervous than ever."

"Were you nervous, then?" '‘You saw that I was more nervous than anybody—that was why you ” sb-' hesitated.

"Why I stared so?” he asked, amused. " why you laughed. It wasn't very nice of you."

-“Upon my word. I didn't guess the least in the world that you were nervous. You seemed unusually composed." " Thea why did you laugh?" she dema sided.

As he stood silent looking at her and still smiliugr. "Ah!" she said quite low. flushing 03 a sudden "Something was wrong! Of course I thought of that. Bat it was too late to help it. . . and I’ve never known what it was.” She seemed to wait. "What if was?" he repeated.

"Yes. what was wrong." "Will y«>u dance?" he asked. quickly looking round as the first bars of a waitx sounded from the ball-room.

"No. I won't dance. Nor laugh. nor speak, nor eat ever again!" she said tragi-comlc-ally.

"What! You don't mean to take me to supper?". He leaned against the wall and copeemplated"her. While one of the suite, also detached, stood near talking with Bishop Brailton. the crowd round The rest of the royal party—little inner circle and larger- one outside —al! moved slowly away Towards The small drawing-room off the bhli-room. and the unfeatured mob flowed in bet Ween.

"It was something—something';—she was very" serious now. and the sch<*ol-girl look was g.one." but school girl words were on her lips—"something you don’t like to' tell Hie." As still he. iuade.no answer: "Something too dreadful to put into words."

"Quite too shocking." he assured her. But the brutality of that nerved her. "N«-body else, seems to have noticed that I did anything "odd." ’ “bh. they' spare your feelings.” She sHadced up at him half laughing, half dismayed. Then, gravely recalling other testimony—"They said my curtsey was al! ’*

“Oh. yes, that was all ” "Ami I didn't ' get tangled up in my train!'-'

"N-no." he said, still seeming tn enjoy some malicious remembrane*'.

"Which was it?" she said uncertainly. **jny feathers dr my hair that was wrong?" _‘Nothiug wrong with your hair." he said, looking at It in such a way as to recall her from that wonderful -day of the DrawingRoom' to the yet more Vivid present. She grew a little confused under his bold admiration. hut making a clutch’ at selfpesneMdoß; *■

tbea.” she saij, seeing that the r®y*l party- with Lady Peterboroogh and a favoured few bad disappeared in the direction of the mosie—-after all. 1 see it will be best to drown the memory of that I»raw-

”1 shall remember it always,” he whispered. as they joined the dancers. De had to take a lady of hich degree down to sapper, but audaciously he telegraphed "be sorry for me:" and though the young debutante smiled back radiant, she felt the occurrence to be in the nature of a loss almost too heavy for "seventeen and a bit” to bear.

And still the pain of it was a thing nearer far to joy than any other gladness she yet had known. For did it not have its centre and its source in this gay and gracious, gently mocking, utterly beguiling soldier, who smiled your heart out of your breast, and left in its place a strange sharp rapture that now and then, as you tested its edge, took the breath like a rapier pneking you to a sense of life, beside which all the days before were as dead, and coffined and without memorial? The night wore on in a dream. The debutante danced, and laughed, and learned through one avenue and another that no coming out for "long and long" had been so brilliant. Lady Peterborough was told that her god-daughter would lie the rage—- " She has a something " "She is apart "She win set a new fash:-*n in beauty.” And all the while the little schoolgirl, who should perhaps have been tucked up in bod. was thinking with thumping filses. "Does he like my hair? Will he ever forget whatever the dreadful thing was at the Drawing-Room? Yes. he certainly iikes my hair Oh. but when he smiles'”

He danced only once again with her. and at the cost of Bertie Amherst's waits, too, so slow had this Prince Anton of Breiten-lohe-Waldenstein been to realise how all the men were asking her "keep one for me,”

While they danced, he asked her if she was to be at the State Concert. And he looked as if life hung upon her "yes." - She was coming? Ah.- then. “at"the Osncert ”

Was it a great swelling' roar of music and of laughter, that filled her ears like the sea—no. hush! it was the sound of her own Mjci beating in her ears, "What did you say?" she asked. •Say?" "Yes. about the Concert.”

"Why, that we shall meet." Then, as she kept looking down and said no word: "I suppose you don’t care about that?" Still the eyelids were unlifted, and the waitx swayed them 'ike an outside power to which neither su the least contributed, only lent themselves in a mood of rapturous yielding. "But I care." he whispered, as if the long pause had not been.

And at the end he only said: "Auf Wfedersehen."

After what seems an eternity to Katharine, the night of the State concert arrives, where, instead of the tete-a-tete she has hoped for she gets only a glimpse of him and a stately bow, and two days later reads in the "Morning Post’’ that Prince Anton Waldenstein haul returned to in the Riesengebirge. Soon after this Katharine pays a visit to her father Colonel Dereham. who is now retired and living in London in chambers, and is taken by him to an “At Home” at Lady Wick’s, the widow of the Mayor of a provincial town who had receive 1 Knighthood. Here she meets Garth Vincent, who tells her he has seen her at the opera a year before. Garth Vincent is totally different to any man she has ever met. and while Katharine docs not exactly like him. thinks him interesting, and likens his face to a dark lantern. She is rather disconcerted when Vincent asks her for her tow n address. which’ she gives as Hill-street. Colonel Dereham's address. Vincent calls, and is told by the servant that Katharine’s real home is with the Peterboroughs. He calls there, ami is made to feel keenly the distance between the Peterborough's world and his, and is dismissed, seemingly, finally. There is an amusing description given of the society at I .adv Wick’s, which is a good many stratas below that of the Peterboroughs. Three years later Katharine (who has never forgotten him) meets Prince Anton in Rome, where he renews his suit- so publicly and persistently that society begins to ’couple their names adversely, there being no announcement of their engagement. Prince Anton then makes a proposal to Katharine, which she in her innocence

does not understand and asks for time to prepare her trousseau. A day or two later eumes a note of farewell. "1 must report myself at Berlin."

wrote to him anxious bat IruMllMlitlle letters, and got back tardr -.ioncommittal answers that any eye might see. Without a doubt. Kitty thought, he was in some trouble, family or State. Being who be was, he was ofie of those few to whom uo general rule applies. This thought wao the key to her whole relation to him.

But. oh. the waiting was hard Eight months dragged by.

She wrote to him. enclosing her latest photograph. Was he going Co Rome again Chis spring, or would lx>ndou see him? And he send her the long-promised picture of himself?

He would “bring it,’’ came the glorious answer.

And in April he did. If he had had “trouble," uo hint of It hung about him uow. Nor yet about his picture, a delightful water-colour sketch doing the Prussian uniform gay justice, and the handsome face no less. And he was just the same. No. more adorable—and again the sun shone and a*l the waiting and the Winter were forgot. Just one cloud on the horizon that Kitty’s eyes could see. Colonel Dereham was ill; certainly too “seedy” at present to pay his respects to. or even to receive the Prince of Breitenlobe-Waldenstein. His old occasional headaches were grown chronic. There were times when the girl became a prey to fears too dark for formulating—days when he shut himself up and refused to see her. or even Mrs Heathcote. For as time went on there was less ceremony about this friendship. But when he did re-appear. akhough he sometimes looked ill enough, still he was usually cheerful, in his old light way, and his daughter would be reassured. He had an inveterate dislike t« ex phi nations, or any sort oof soul-search ing. If he resented the asking of questions, even by Kitty, he certainly seldom pu; them himself. The more striking, therefore, his unprefaced demand one day — "When are you going to marry?" “Why. I ... I don't know." "Don't they -.*sk you? —the idiots.” “Not all of the idiots, father dear.” "Humph! I know of three who do." "Do you?" a little wickedly. ’*l wonder if I know them." "Bertie Amherst. Sir Philip Cray bourne, and Hastings." "Oh. those ” "Well, what are you waiting for? Aren't they splendid enough for you?" "They aren't so very splendid.” "They're three of the best matches in England." "Y-yes. I suppose they are.” "You're waiting to ' fall in love. I suppose." ■“Oh. no”—a little guiltily—"l'm not waiting for that." “Fpr what then?" She stood silent. How could she say for what she was waiting? “I don’t think it will do you any good. Kitty” (he was uncommonly serious ' for him»—"to have people saying you are keeping up a desperate flirtation with Breiten-lohe-Waidenstein.” "Do you hear people say so?” Unconsciously her empiushs measured great distance. for the Heathcote woman heid the farther end of the tape. e:l. they do. And it’s the second season they've said so. Won't do you auv good, my dear." Another time when some society paper reported at length a ba I masque at Peterborough House, with a significant reference to Prince Anton and Miss Dereham as Lancelot of the and the lily maid of Astolat: "1 don't know what that old Peterborough woman is thinking about,” repeated Colonel Dereham with an iil-huiuour very unusual Lu the most amiable of men. More to the point was what Lord Peterborough thought. For the first time in Thirty years he precipitated a scene with his wife. It ended stonuily. He would speak to Waldensteiu. That threat reduced Lady Peterliorough to terms. him wait for twenty-four hours. It was far easier to wait than to forge ahead. The huge effort had exhausted the old man's scant energy. Yes. be would wait twenty-four hours. He and Katharine avoided each other. She knew he disapproved of her. and he knew she knew. No need of words there. Bur between Waidenstcin and Lady Peterborough. a long conference t»ehii»d closed doors. Again after dinner she took him away to her l»oudoir to show him some of her new bindings. Bui almost at .once a servant came to Katharine in the drawingroom: "Her ladyship asks you. please, to bring her your l»ook, miss—the book that came home from the binders yesterday.” '"Which one? Oh. the Prosper Merlmee?” "Yes. miss." said the footman, relieved at not having to tackle the name. Kitty went with the volume in her hand to the pink and white room opening on to the conservatory. Only Antou was there. She hesitated on the threshold. "I had a message from ”Yes. it's all right.” He drew her in and shut the door—looked at her a moment, coming closer as he did so, till suddenly he caught her to him. His action had the air of an overmasieriug impulse. Yet be was not so carried away but‘he could wonder, ns his arms closed round her. where she got her flame-like uprightness—there seemed nothing firm enough in her physique to serve as framework for so tall, reed-straight a creature. She was one of those girls whose slender bones seem to lack hardness while have e’asticity. ,He laid a hand on her waist—absurdly small. Wrists so slight; and all so pliant. The youngness nf her was like the youngness of a child. He kissed her "Why did you leave me. if you love mo like this?” she whispered. ’•You’ve never told me why.”

I Ml 1 you *•» Uu« thM

n«l tte least 1. ifce

X«. dear aagel.. of coarse voa aaa'c. I»ear. dear little innocent!" Ur kissed the Hand on his sleeve, lifted the other took the green and stiver book out of her -rasa, laid it on the writing-table, and fell to Lol tug the small Angers that had held it. kissing them one by one. "But Lady Peter borough understands perfectlv. Ah. that"* ir C,ev V »<•“*■'- But then she knows the lire. las see. my beautiful, there hare been great dittieaities." (Just as she had SES"*-’ c ’"‘‘ «»»<*tve what huge difficulties —Lady Peterlcorottgh realises."

''"* yf*- H*e girl protested. "1 can uuderstaiid all that better than you think " He had put her into a great chair and sat npou the arm. drawing her clZe a ai«t bim. "Well, if you can understand, so much the better. It hasn't been easy. Far froes liear Autou." she murmured. He had gone through harassing scenes at Walden* stein for her sake—perhaps, who knows, they are making him leave the army; even give up his rank! "Tell me abou; it " she whispered. w el! ~ nut he fell to murmuring endearments in caressing German. Stiddenlr he got up and ran hrs white Ungers through his upstanding brush of yellow hair. "Pm frightfully hi love, you know." he said argumentatively. She smiled. Did he think it necessary to point that out? "They'll say I've lost my head.' (Poor Priuecl to " a ' e ?. ven at t!lis metueat to think of "they. I "My only defence is: I can't help **- .5- "*** Plus fort que moi. 1 can't let you "Of course uot." is “' t «actly -of course.' "he said, smiling: "but 1 eau’t let you go." Again he kissed her: brow. eyes. "MiiudwinekeL” "But you'll uuderstaiid and make things easy—help me all you can." "Indeed 1 will." “Yoo sro “'t forget that I've made great sacrifices for your sake—” ’•I will never forgo: that.” Ho stood directly under the <<e<: ic light by the great green marble m.vrv niece. Ilia Sue fresh-coloured complex! e'eamed pink sud satiny in the strong hlumh bis hair looked like spun glass. and the defiant upturned moustache. catching the downward hooding light, seemed more metallicgolden than ever. And he loved her—he was her knight, thia splendid creature. “The great thing (you'll agree with in? ia ray beautiful) is to have no delay.” “And you—you'll like living in HungaryT’ he asked, after a second's hesitation. “I shan't mind where we live.' As he looked at her reflectively she added: “Kut it would be delightful to be pan of the vest ar Waidenstein. wouldn't it? “No,” he said with decision. “It’s no use to begin that “Our English Princess- is so seldom there.” “But my mother is. always.” ‘’Won't she like me?” Transported to the Waidenstein irclc. he answered absently. “She may not care about —about this kind of arrangement.** The girl half rose. What is-it you mean, what ’arrange me nt?' ” ’’Why. a—what I'm proposing. A private marriage. Something in her eyes made him add hurriedly: “You said y«»u could understand my position.” "You—you menu ’private' just for The present—til! you are able to announce ill” “My dear child, you see. unfortunately, you aren't—you have every grace except rank. We can't get over that. ' ‘’Can't get over it?” “No. And we. in Germany, arc great sticklers for ” “But you said —oh. what was it you said? - the great huge difficulties were s -: over. What did yon mean? Piease. pleasv speak plain. I—it murts me so dreadfully —” She stood up. facing him with bewildered eyes. “It's al! right. " he said soothingly, with a baud out to bring her back: “1 shall always love you best.” She drew away shaking with a sudden cold excitement. ’’Does a private marriage with me mean ” ”Everym«dy will understand it’s al! right.” he repeated. “Nobody will think any the less . Why. it’s been done in your own 1 toy a I family.'' “You don't mean—Amon, say you don't mean I may live to see another woman your real wife" ”lf ever - probably never—in any case you would !»e my real wife. too.” Devil take the unlucky little word, he thought. It stung like a wasp. She had shrunk back from it away. away to the middle of the room. with both hands tip. barrier-wise, to shield her wound: and a pitiful young face looked over, only hatf crediting the extent of her hurt. “Don't look like that,” he prayed: “you make me miserable. " As slowly, doubtfully, he came toward* her with outstretched hand, his signet caught the light. Her wide eyes fixed upon it. Old words rose up above (he chaos in her mind: “Knight, thou hast done thyself great folly, for this shield ought uot to l»e borne, but by him that shall have wo peer that liveth.” “ you make me miserable/* he wat saying. ”1 I don't want to make you miserable •too.' ” Her voice was «o faint, he was afraid she was going to fall. “Don't. " she cried, shrinking and with ey - trill fixed ou the ring, as though it eruri. .1 »i evil spell newly apprehended. I « 'alt right.” as you've learned to - . • • . I — Oh. 1 wish I had died last vlso' She fled from the room Next Jay Prince Anton eftlls. Katharine refuses to see him then nr <o er again. The following summer a marriage is announced l»etween Prince Anton and hia second cousin, Duchess Margaret ha

Hildesheim. Several years later Katharine and Prinee Anton meet face to face in Paris. Rumour had of late linked Anton's name with that of Madame Baria (the great singer). Later he tells Katharine that his wife has gone off in a frantic rage to her brother in Pomerania, ami means to divorce him. He also tells her that his amour with Madame Baria has been conducted with a view to that end. Now. did Katharine understand! Katharine understood so well that next day she left her godmother behind in Paris and joined laird Peterborough in Devonshire.

Anton, not daring to follow her there, rained upon her such Mebesbriefe as only a German can write. Not merely mixing reverence with passion, others have mastery of that craft, but conveying what he would with a naive simplicity, a naked directness, as electric as disarming. An effect. this, due chiefly to the language in which he wrote, lending itself to that combination of the raw truth that goes iicmu*. and the* sentimental that sounds so much more possible in German than in English.— poetising, philosophising, appealing with every practised phrase* of the man who has made this theme his study as well as his pastime. The same letters In English would have missed their mark: spoiled by that shrinking of the heart from the phrase-worn commonplace, its significance chiefly ironic, reminiscent of long abuse. The old things said in another tongue came charged with the excitement of discovery, wearing a freshness as of Eden. And he made* good his claim to being more than a soldier. Not only sent her books as time wont on, wrote about them pertinently. Tn his more impassioned moods, made and sent dedicated to her little* Gediehte, that because they were not notably bad seemed brilliant. But for all their hitting the mark. Liebosbiiefe ami Gediehte got for their return: “It is no use. I wonder at your lack of knowledge of womankind. This ‘kind' of woman, you should know. I am net.” Ami • Your Highness is very daring. You will even be* writing to me of Tugend as well as of Liebe. I do not know if •Virtue’ is as strong in me as Pride. I only know that, although my feeling about you keeps me_from anyone else, it will equally keep me from you.” • Vntil the divorce!” ho interpreted by return with the* comment: “Strange what cruelty so gentle a being can wilfully inflict.” In each after letter confident reference to the divorce. Then proceedings Were already instituted. Anton finds a great ally in Lady Peterborough, who has all along been in favour of the morganatic marriage, telling Katharine that they had an illustrious example in their own Royal family, totally over looking the fact that while one was a marriage of love in the highest sense of the word, the other was a marriage in whieh no feeling was, on his side at least, except that of sensuous gratification, only to be obtained through the portals of lawful marriage, after every unlawful means had failed. News from time to time reached her privately of the progress of the divorce, and tired at last of the importunities of Lady Peterborough and Prinee Anton, she consents to go with Lady Peterborough to Berlin to meet Anton. In Berlin Lady Peterborough receives a letter from Anton, saying .that he regrets not being in Berlin to receive her, and suggesting that she and Miss Dereham should come "two-thirds of the way the following day by train to meet himself ami his cousin (Graf Wilhelm) for half a day's coaching in the Saehische Schweiz. They go, and after the drive are taken to Wilhelmsruhe, the seat of the Graf, to see his art treasures, and drink Russian caravan tea. After tea Anton proposed to show Katharine the Porcelain Room, Lady Peterborough being left behind to be entertained by Graf Wilhelm. lie leaves the room to find out the hour at whieh their train starts for Berlin, and in his absence the servant brings in the evening mail. He drops a letter by accident at Lady Peterborough's feet, addressed (in a beautifully elear feminine hand) to Prince Anton. and on Lady Peterborough asking him if he had ever seen the hand-w riting before, tells her that it is the hand-writ-ing of Princess Margaretha. who writes to the Prinee evei'y day. and is wretched If she does not receive one in return. In a Hash Lady Peterborough sees that there lias never been any question of divorce, and that Anton's story of the ihvoree proceedings has been a tissue of lies from beginning to end. in order to obtain Katharine's consent to what woukf Irave proved a mock marriage. Now, Lady Peterborough. though steeped in worldliness, was not a wicked woman, and she resents in every fibre of her body the great wrong that was tobe done to Katharine. The moment the Graf returned she demanded Katharine's presence, and the carriage to take them to the station, but is told

that Anton and Miss Derehum are gone out to see the cathedral. Lady Peterborough leaves for the station, and insists on vailing at the cathedral en route. Not finding Katharine either there or at the station, she goes back to Wilhelmsruhe, <rod declares her inTention of not leaving that place until she sees Anton and Katharine. In the meantime Anton has been driven to the cathedral with Katharine, but does not attempt to alight. He gives the order “home** to the coachman, and tells him to drive to the clock tower entrance. They reach it, and Katharine is taken upstairs to a small room, lamp lit and luxuriously furnished. “I want to hear ” she began. The faint scent that always clung about him tobacco, Russian leather, and some dhscreet hint of flowers —came towards her like a tide. It closed about her. “It is settled at last’” he said. “The divorce?*’ “That you are mine.’- 1 “Then the divorce is granted.” He stopped her mouth, with kissing. Even in that headlong moment, the horrible intuitiveness of woman descended on her like a curse—or like some blessing won through anguish. As she lay that moment passive in his arms, the great struggle of her life went forward in her soul: "He has been deceiving me!” The old turmoil of the .mind that a lie. or even dread of lies, produced in her. gave her the sense that all the securities of life had failed her, all standards were in the dust. If this man did, not speak true, .then was chaos come. The main fact of existence was not that she was shut in here alone with him—not that he was every second nearer losing what was left of self-com-mand —these things were oliscured by the horror of “he lies." But where was her own quirk sense of truth? Why was she taking so meanly its betrayal? And with a shuddering distinctness she saw why it was that she was lamed. Truth violated oven in the secret places of the heart may be trusted to wreak this revenge, deadening perception, hampering revolt. Ami in the secretest place of all, Katharine Dereham had known. “I have felt it coming all the afternoon —each turn of his thought, each rush, and each recoil and doubling—deep down in my heart, fathoms below admission even to myself. I have been conscious of it all. No innocent maiden trapped. His aecompHee, I.” Yet for ail the moment’s rude unveiling of herself to herself, she saw in flashes pictures of a Katharine Dereham who should play at being’ caught, stand a sympathetic figure En tin*.general eye while she tasted the sweet of yielding. “Anton.” she said, “the divorce is not granted.” “She is Catholic,” he whispered thickly, holding her closer and looking into her face with half-shut eyes. “She is right. And the Church is. right, (and you and I are wrong, all wrong. Anton.” She spoke monotonously, with filling eyes. He laid his face on hers. She drew away, but gently. “It would have been kinder to write me the truth to England,” she said. “You and I would not be here if I’d done that.” “No —and I at least would have been spared some of this pain.” She turned blindly to the door. A quick movement, and he interposed between her outstretched, shaking hand and the high-up ancient latch of heavy iron. “There is no time for more now.” she said. “I will go back to Lady Peterborough.” ••No!” “Oh, yes ” “I do not mean you to go back.” She opened her lips. He stopped her. “You don’t in your heart want to.” “Lady re.terborough. ” “Lady Peterborough has gone.” “She would never do that.” “I tell you she has gone without you. On my honour” (Katharine shivered) “she is gone.” She sat down in the nearest chair, staring at the lamp. Although he came and knelt beside her. his low words seemed to reach her from a long way off—things he had never dared to say plainly before, aboutthe consecration of a great love, about the holiness of freedom in high affairs. “Petty middle-class principles” had no application to people such as they. “I seem to see,” she said at last, “how well you have prepared mo to hear all this. Little by little, since we met in Koine, you b ave __l xo. why should I blame yon? It is myself who is to blame, for letting go, one by one. the things that—that I believe I. cannot live without, Anton.” •What things?” She shook her head slowly, and the tears rose again to her eyes. ••You can’t give them to mo. after all.” She drew her hands away from under his lips. ami. crying softly, she rose up. Not seeing the door for tears, she yet moved towards it. “Hush! stop! You don't understand: one must speak so carefully. You are lifted up or hurled down with a phrdse. I saw you shrink when I said how easily that “marrying with the left hand” could he done tomorrow. I meant to-night—and What’s in the loft hand less than in the right ” he took her shaking fingers away from the high latch. “No. no. you must not touch me. I—l can’t th’nk when you do.” But his arms were round her. Thar he did not kiss the face was because the face was hidden. Over the bowed fiend he poured out an excited torrent half in German, half in English—his boundless devotion: bls loyalty, that being the man he was, no witnessed vow nor legal form could ever hope to coerce, but that she. the lady for over regnant In his heart, would find her vassal and her slave As suddenly she lifted her white

face, and looked at him, he recoiled: "No, no!” he exclaimed, as if Bhe had spoken—and then ou a lower note, “You are a statue

—not a woman?* They stood there breathing quickly in the silence, looking in each others eyes.

Then, muttering something in German she did not catch, he set his broad back against the oaken door, and looked down upon her with every feature set. Khe <‘ame closer. He did not move an eyelash. “Open the door,” she said. “Do you imagine for a moment that I shall?” “It is impossible for you to keep me here against my will.” “You speak as though such a thing had never been done.’*. “It never has been. Not’’ —the trembling lips smiled faintly—“not since woman realised—” “I am better informed. I know of cases.” She winced inwardly. Baria, one? Oh, no, she wore the Prince’s favour like a jewel or a feather. But had some other confronted him here in the tower —or elsewhere heard these words? The sense of moral sickness made her physically faint. “You have not known a case like this. Not where the woman really did not want to stay.” She interrupted his prompt asseveration. “Oh, yes. where she pretendedpretended very well. But not really wanted to—meant to go, as I do.” He only shifted his position slightly. leaning more heavily on the door. Standing so, looking at each other, they heard steps. Anton turned sharply, and held a hand ready to shoot the heavy bolt. “If you do that.” said Katharine very low, “I shall call our.” “Anton!” Graf Wilhelm’s voice pitched cautiously. “Well.” “Come here. I must speak to you.” An Instant’s reflection, and Prince Anton opened the door a few inches, standing with hand upon the latch and face to the intruder. Katharine never moved from behind the door—every sense strained to make effectual use of the interruption. Graf Wilhelm’s whisper, perturbed, angry. reached her distinctly, as he jerked out in indignation German: “ . . the devil to pay downstairs. She refused to go without Miss . . She has insisted on returning here.” “Good God!’’ the Prince ejaculated under his breath. “She is questioning the servants.” the man outside added in growing agitation. “You mustn’t expect me ” “What on earth are you talking about!” the Prince’s words were addressed to Graf Wilhelm—but they merely marked time. The rea» question was put when the hand, dropped from the latch, was held out in silent appeal to the woman behind the door —the fingers groping and trying to fasten on her arm. She seemed not so much to refuse as not to notice that vain asking for connivance—for courage to carry the fight to a finish. Katharine came quietly round behind the Prince, and over his shoulder nodded to the man without. “Already train time is it?” she asked in even tones. At sound of her voice Prince Anton drew himself up—suddenly another man. “I am sorry if we have kept Lady Peterborough waiting,” he said. "We will come at once.” Shortly after this Lady Peterborough dies, and Katharine goes abroad with Lb rd Peterborough. Her views have changed considerably, and she often finds herself regretting Lady Wick, or rather that strata of society to which Lady Wick belongs. She has, in addition to finding Anton worthless, the horror to discover that her father is a confirmed slave to opium. Much that before ha 1 been mysterious is now clear to her, and the shock, acting on an already weakened nervous system, almost brings her to a state of dissolution. At this stage she is persuaded by her friend, Mrs Bruton, to consult Garth Vincent, the great nerve specialist. She does so, and is ordered the rest cure; which means in her case six weeks’ entire isolation from every living soul except doctor and nurse. No letters, newspapers, or indeed any news of the outside world is to reach her. The decription of Garth Vincent, as the professional man, the nurses, and the routine of the six weeks, is more than ordinarily interesting. Sufficient it .is to say that the cure is a success, and Katharine at the end of her convalescence finds 'herself in love with the once-de-spised Garth Vincent. She also finds that Lord Peterborough has died, and her father re married. Though left very wealthy, with renewed health and beauty, and numbers of true friends, Katharine feels more keenly than even that no true women's life can be perfect without its crown of love. Though Garth Vincent has never ceased to love her, he is thoroughly determined that she shall, to use a figure of speech, be brought to her knees to him before he lifts her up to walk with him hand in hand to the end of their life’s journey. When a woman is in love she may be said to live on her knees, and so it was not very long before Garth and Katharine were married. Commonly speaking, everything is over to the looker on when the hero and heroine of a story are married. But to the

married, hfe is only jost beginning. Jusfl as the grape with ils delicate bloom is gathered, put through the press, and after t’ne fining process, enierges wine, the quality of which is determined first by the soundness of the raw material, and the care with which the various constituents are commingled—so is the life of two made one. After their marriage, Garth \ incent—now Sir Garth—• and Katharine go back to London, where little by little Sir Garth sees Katharine slipping back again to her old friends and world, in which he has no place. He becomes furiously jealous of Lord Falconbridge, an old friehd of her youth. Katharine has written poetry all her life, more or less. Of this Sir Garth is unaware, and one day finds her showing a certain white vellum book (Which he has always seen locked) to Lord Falconbridge, and is furious that he, Lord Falcon bridge, should be allowed to see what had hitherto been kept secret from him. Things go from bad to worse with them, and one day Katharine returns to find that Sir Garth Iras sent her baby away, with its nurse. She follows it to High Winstone, where Sir G<irth has a house, only to find that Sir Garth has suddenly re-called child and nurse to town. Mrs Bruton, her friend, lives quite close to High Winstone, where she is now entertaining a large house parry, to which Katharine has been invited, but has refused from motives of expediency. But now she determines to go there, but had scarcely arrived when she hears Sir G’arth’s voice asking for her in the hall. Katharine is afraid, and her friends deny her presence there, and Sir Garth, unbelieving, starts for home. Katharine, in the meanwhile, has left by another gate, and is being driven home in Lord Falconbridges car. trusting to reach there before sir Garth. She does, and gives her maid instructions to tell Sir Garth that she cannot .see him until morning. Then she went to her room. On the dressing-table lay the white vellum book, wrenched and marred, the lock broken off. Well, he had seen the Baby’s Songs—what then? Why was she trembling? It was as if some of the heat and tumult of the passion with which he had torn the book lingered yet about the ruined thing to touch her with contagion. She could see him doing this. His bootless errands to London, and to Little Matley. would not have made him gentler. Oh, why had she fled away? She might have known it would only make things worse. “I must, keep my head,” she said to herself as she hid the shattered book in a drawer. “I mar have to save him from himself to-night. Tonight? No!” her nerves cried out. “Tomorrow. He would see clearer then.” She crossed the room to bolt the door, paused', listened, opened it cautiously, went out and stood at the top of the stairs. All quiet. She went back and rang her bell. “Was the octagon room get ready for the nurse?” "Yes, in’ lady. ” said the eleepy maid. “Take Sir Garth’s things in there. Ask him, when he comes, please not to disturb me. I hardly slept last night.” “He's gone to London, m’ lady ” “Just move his things—and quickly. I am very tired.” For all that, when the maid at last was gone, and the doors locked and bolted, Katharine did not go to bed, did not even undress. She turned out the blazing light, drew up the blinds, and sat by the open window facing the gate. The time dragged leaden. Surely he ought to be back by now. The sleepy maid would bo giving in to weariness. He might not get the message She left the window and threw herself on the bed. Vividly a vision of him stamped itself upon the dark, Garth as he had. stood there that morning at the foot of the bed. his quick brown ringers moving in that horrible way. and his tslow lips saying: “If you did —I don’t knew what might come.” Hush! was that a horse galloping? “I’d think that must be Garth if I didn’t know, he had the dog-cart.” While she listened for wheels, the moments passed. More than once she said to herself, “I must keep my head.” The sense was all about her of impending horror. She sat up suddenly. Someone was moving in the house. Not he. for she would have heard him driving in at the gate. The handle of the door turned. She held her breath. “Open the door! ” he said. She had meant to answer, if at all. quietly. from the bed —hut the voice brought her to her feet, carried her across the room. “Wait till morning, Garth.” “Open the door!” Silence. She looked at the bolt, saying to herself, with exultant terror, that it was strong. And still as she stood on the inside. he stood there without, waiting, but straining to send every sense through the barrier between them. The woman, holding her breath on the other side, felt as if those fierce eyes were forcing, sight through the fibres of the wood. The sound of his breathing came to her. Every nerve in her body was conscious of the Intensity of his listening. “Open the door, or I’ll ” She recoiled, and waited rooted there, till she heard his quick step going down the corridor. Thank God! She turned up the light, and with uncertain fingers felt for the clasp of her necklace. At that Instant

ftMe dreaaing rawM door wu tried — wm •bakeu. •*I shall not open the doer til! moruBefore the worda were fairly out, a great ftoiae burst upon the quiet. That sole bar* riflUr between her and what was to come, the solid door, shivered and cried out. A sound of rrashiug and splintering followed hard—a sound to her shrinking nerves as if the very foundations of the house were being broken up. and as by some explosion, scattered to the winds of heaven. With that last harsh splintering, the second of the lower panels gave way. Vincent bad stooped and was coming in. head lowered •like a bn!l, red-eyed, maddened. lie did not advance upon her. but upon the other door, still locked, bolted, chained: and now his eyes were making circuit of the room. 4 'What are you looking for?” she said. He came close. She fell back before his advance, until arrested by his words, for the words were like a cry for help. “Don’t ever do it again. Say what you like to me —but don’t ever lock me o*it. It makes me see red’” Iler fictitious strength was suddenly gone. She sank into the chair under the light. As her upturned eyes rested on his tortured face, something strange in experience, something altogether new seised hold on her, and in her heart, which she had hardened, was suddenly like molten wax —for looking in his face was like looking in an open wound. While her wide eyes filled, the form liefore her that had seemed to her iron and granite made man—slightly it pwaved. “Garth!” She held up her hand. A ragged, stifled cry came out of his lips, find he was on his knees, his face hidden in her lap. No anger of his had ever seemed to her so terrible as that torn and tortured cry. It was like some convulsion of inanimate Nature, dwarfing the narrow human experience, beggaring her of words, leaving her trembling and dumb. That cry of his still sounded in the silent room. It lived on, long after it had left his lips. It cried again from the cornice. It echoed from window to door. She held her clasped hands shaking to her breast, looking about wildly, as If to find him help. Then as her eyes fell upon the figure crouching at her feet, and she realised him kneeling there like a little child, she began to sob softly above hrs hidden face. So often she had said in her heart, “if only yon really loved me.” she never knew that, bending over him now. she said the words aloud, until she heard him answering: “It is because of that. You can say anything you like. Don't Jock me out.” “I never will again.” she answered, laying her cheek on his hair. “Garth. I was at Little Matley when you eame to-night. I heard you asking . . . . ” Still no sign. “Blanche lied because she thought—she knew, I was afraid.” He repeated: “You were afraid?” “Oh, yes, I was afraid. lam afraid now: but I have to tell yon. It was because I was afraid I came by the old coach road in a motor-car Lord Falconbridge brought me home.” “I know he did.” “How could you know?” “I rode through the wood. I saw you pass.” She waited, knowing that she and the man at her side had skirted disaster close that night. “Please tell me, have you been jealous, Garth*?” “You haven't thought much about mo of late.” he said in dogged self-defence —“the nearest yon came to that, was to think of the child.” But although it was so untrue, the saying shed a light. “And through it all”—she framed his face between her hands —“do you mean that you loved me through it %.’!?” “It's not to be helped That I love you.” She laughed upo« the. edge of tears. “Oh. Garth. Garth, there's nobody tn all the world, but would think it a disaster to •be you or me—and yet how do they, those people who have lived calm, unshaken lives, how can they be sure of each other, as you end I are sure?” But he had no more words to-night than common. ' “If any power but death.” she ended softly, “could have parted you and me, we should not be together now.” “No,” he said. “What about the future? when the black moods come again—-—” She clung closer to him. “They won’t—so long as you make me feel I am near to you. And that no one else is.” he added fiercely. Ah. she was to take care of the Future. Involuntarily she said, “And the Past?” That term for him seemed strangely contracted, for like one confidently calling up a witness on his side. “Do you forget.” he said, “the months here before the baby was born?” “If I have. I never will again.” she answered. “The Past.” for her, too, should mean that tender, haupy time. I After all these months of waiting for him to speak, after being so sure that her love must inevitably win from him the story of those other and where, and how and all the rest—now. waking beside him in the dawn, it suddenly came over her that she should never know these things. He would love her well -of that she was assured—and he was steadfast unto stubtmrnness. But she would never get him to lift the veil. And for a moment the thought ehilled her. But the late realisation of the truth was at last sun-char. He had none of the artist's reflex pleasure in contemplating himself in pain. His way was to damn ♦he circumstance, and then do all he could to forget it. Even If ho remembered, memory would never get so far as speech. If tic had few words for present need, he ■would have none at all for the past. AH these weeks in London, she had felt the barrier of the unknown years rise between

her and him high, impassable, impregnable —and for a while the barrier had shut out joy. But only for a while. She saw by the light of the new morning that what she had deplored as a flaw in the faith that she hoped to establish between them was no Haw of his making. It was a thing essential, Inevitable-inirt of the human lot. She had thought Uiat other husbands, close to their wives hi sympathy and devotion, told them their past. But did they? Not one had told, or cuuld tell everything. To any hut the least sensitive, even the vaguest reminder of these things set the nerves jarring. And yet this source of pain lay behind every marriage made late enough to be founded on the rock of proved fitness. Her good fortune it was that Garth would never make those old days live again, by any word of his. They seemed the more securely dead. They were as if they had never been. Garth Vincent is an uncommon but not an impossible type of character, autocratic, thoroughly truthful, and single minded. Understanding little, and sympathising less with the subtleties of the feminine mind, which is at once their charm and ineir repulsion—for man—lie may be said to be more interesting to read about than easy to live with. But someone has said, “Give me a man,’’ and to that someone may be given Sir Garth. “Put not your trust in princes,” is a saying as old as the hills. Prince Anton Waldenstein is a thoroughly despicauie character, without a single redeeming feature. To liken him to Machiavelli would be to do Machiavelli injustice, since Machiavelli stooped to duplicity for love of country. Lord Peterborough is a good type of the English aristocrat. His nobility is shown by his refusal to have Katharine made aware that he was about to die. for fear of retarding her recovery. Katharine is a wonderfully strong character of the type that is made perfect through weakness, and in spite of her sufferings one could not wish her different. Brought up amongst people whose highest aim was to kill time, and whose moral code was of the flimsiest, she formed her own ideals and lived up to them as far as was humanly possible, and at last won as great a measure of happiness as is permitted to mortals. Lady Peterborough had all the faults of her class, but redeemed them in part by her loyalty to Katharine when her honour was menaced. The hook is so excellently written that one cannot but reiterate the regret that so good a writer should prostitute her talent to the rending of that veil of reserve, and the vivisection of everything her sex holds sacred. DELTA.

THE SIN OF LABAN ROUTH. —Adeline Sergeant. Digby, Long and Co., London. In these days of complex plot and doubtful moral, it is refreshing to come across this delightfully simple story of sin committed and mercifully condoned. Laban Bouth has come into possession of the. land he farms by the disinheriting of his elder brother. This brother dies, leaving one girl (Esther), to whom Laban Routh, a hard, dour man, grudgingly gives a home. His two sons, Stephen and Hilary. are both in love with Esther, but-it is not until they are grown to manhood that, anything like serious rivalry takes place between them. But the winning of an artistic honour by Stephen, which Hilary thinks he has more right to than Stephen, brings matters tc a crisis, and ends in a terrible quarrel between the two. This quarrel takes place on the side of a cliff, and in the struggle which ensues Hilary falls over the cliff into the river below. Search is made for his body, but it cannot be found, and Stephen, in his first grief, thinks himself his brother’s murderer. Peter Preston, a lawyer’s clerk, who is the evil genius of the Routh family, and a suitor for Esther's hand, witnesses the quarrel, and attempts to extort blackmail from Stephen for silence. But Stephen, who is thoroughly upright, refuses when he hears that a part of the price to be paid is Esther’s hand. Stephen goes home and confesses his share in Hilary’s death to his father, who is stricken down with the illness which shortly after causes his death. He, in his turn, confesses that Preston has been for seme time in receipt of blackmail from him for hiding the fact that another and later will had been found by Preston which would have the effect of making Esther sole heiress. Routh sends for Esther, confesses how lie was tempted by Preston, and how he fell, and begs her to show her forgiveness by marrying Stephen. Esther, who loves Stephen with all her heart, and who is unaware

of the part Steplic.i has had in Hilary's death, readily consents. In the meantime Preston, who has be* n dangerously ill, leaves his lied, anxious to learn how things are progre-sing at the farm. As he nears the house he sies that something unusual is in progress, and is told that Stephen and Esther have been that day married. He sees E ther, and tells her of the part Stephen has played in Hilary’s death, and seeing that Esther is ignorant of it, persuade- her that Stephen has wilfully deceived her. Stephen, in his turn, had lieon under the impression Hint Laban Routh lad told her everything. Esther leaves Stephen on

their wedding day, and. going up to lamdon. consults a friend, who knows Imth she and Stephen. This friend absolutely refuses to believe any evil of Stephen, ami Esther returns home full of remorse for having doubted him. As she mars lioni< she meets Stephen. Explanations and reconciliation follow, and also hoppiness. as it turns cut that Hilary, after all, was not drowned, but had hidden away until he could meet his brother, who he at heart really loved, calmly. Hilary emigrates. I‘rcstnn dies, and the married lovers are left in undisputed possession, and marital felieitv. DELTA.