Such a confidential attachment may be, in fact, more satisfying than love, because the girl gets all the sympathy that she needs for herself. In too many cases the lover regards his mistress mainly as the giver of sympathy, not the recipient: he talks to her entirely about himself, and expects her to listen. Now, Gilbert Maryon asked for nothing for himself; he gave all that he had to give, which was an amazing store of sympathy, interest, and counsel, to the girl, and wanted nothing in return. As for love, why, of course,-but not in that way.

:

As for Gilbert, Lady Osterley's confidential friend, he was, to look at, the ordinary young man of this generation, which is a handsome, athletic generation; he was not quite the ordinary young man, because he was possessed of large brains: he took a first in something or other; then, which is also not common, he had a moderate fortune, and belonged to a respectable family. He also had good manners, a kindly disposition, and a pleasant voice. Like many young men of fortune, he travelled he shot big game; he spent a summer among Eskimo; he climbed the Andes; he learned that Eton, Trinity, the West End, and the country house are not everything; and he acquired that attractive kind of contempt for things in general, especially things connected with money-getting, which men who roam and ramble and have plenty of money for themselves do easily acquire. Nobody despises moneygetting quite so much as the young man of generous instincts who is born rich. Now, you have heard that Gilbert made every woman his friend. Yet, so far, his name had never been associated with that of any woman. You know the story of Petit Jehan de Saintré: how the continual contemplation of the perfections of his mistress made him blind to every other woman; his case, we are told, though I find it hard to believe, was common in that day. It is now uncommon, yet not impossible.

Gilbert's ideal woman grew up in his mind out of those letters. He found in the world plenty of charming women, but not that woman. Dorabyn herself was not that woman. He fell, in fact, into the danger connected with ideals: he found no one like unto his ideal. Not that he was always looking out for his ideal, or yearning for it. Not at all. Only that smaller women did not attract him. The thing is exactly like acquiring a taste for the very finest claret: an inferior vintage ceases to please, yet the lower creation laps it up with avidity. Give me, however, an honest liking for such wine as I can afford to buy. Give me the power of worshipping such a woman as I can expect to win. And since, fortunately, women do not grow really more noble or finer as they go up the ladder of rank, the latter petition must be referred to the mental and moral limitations of the lover. Put it in another form. In order to ensure happiness, which is contentment, let us not be too much in advance of our friends or our income.

"Now," said Gilbert, when Dorabyn had been silent for two minutes, "tell me what you really mean.”

He sat down, and leaning against the arm of his chair he showed the ear and the side face of the listener. To look at her with full face might make things more difficult.

"Tell me," he repeated, in his gentle and persuasive voice, "all that you choose

to tell."

"It seems so dreadful that no one warned me. Some one must have known." "I wish I had been at home, Dorabyn-though I knew nothing." “Do you think a man can go on for ever doing things without being found out?"

"I don't know. Some men do. I never heard anything about Sir Charles. At the same time I did not know him."

"Then, Gilbert," she sat upright and forced herself to speak plainly, yet could

not bring herself to a simple statement of fact, "could you believe that that man who looks so superior-this man with the cold eyes and the proud face and the austere voice is nothing better than-oh!-all that we read about?"

any man, if the thing is proved."

"One can believe anything about "It seemed to promise so well. There was everything. He was the most promising man of the time; he was good in conversation; he was a handsome man-I care something about that it is true, he did not make violent love; but he was well bred and quiet over it-which was a change, after some of them. And his people were pleasant. Why did no one tell me?"

"First, I repeat, no one knew anything at all against him. Next, everybody thought that ambition entered into that marriage. Perhaps, if a woman marries for ambition she has less right than other women to look into the past life." "Perhaps you thought I was marrying for position."

"Well, Dorabyn, you wrote to me fully at the time,-I got your letter, I remember, in British Columbia,-and you allowed me to believe that love had very little to do with it."

"Love had nothing at all to do with it, Gilbert," she confessed. "I did marry him entirely for ambition. I thought I should like to be the wife of a great statesman. It is a very fine position indeed-far better than any coronet can give. But I did think I could respect him. And now you see the end of my noble ambition."

"I shall see it, I daresay, presently."
"Then you will tell me what I shall do, Gilbert.

Because I do not know."

the rain was falling on the

She walked again to the window and looked out: asphalte of a London road in South Kensington. She turned and took up one trifle after another on the table: when one is mentally perturbed these trifles seem to bring relief; people in great trouble always talk of things irrelevant, or occupy their minds for a moment with a trifle. I read, once, of a murderer who, on being arrested, pleasantly took up a shell from the mantelshelf and called attention to the singular beauty of its colouring. It was a relief from the terrible tension of

his mind, you see. Gilbert sat in the same attitude, not moving-still with the

side face.

"You were married," Gilbert reminded her, quietly.

"Yes. Yes, I was married.

I was going to be proud of him. Proud! Oh! Heavens! Things began directly upon our marriage."

"What things?"

"You shall hear. The honeymoon was tedious, and we came back to town after a week or two. Then Things began. Oh! it was line upon line, and precept upon precept. The first blow fell the day after our return. His solicitor called. You must know that we have never had any vulgar quarrels. Charles was not that kind of man. Everything has been most politely managed by an aged, bland, respectable old gentleman. Never was a woman led into the Valley of Humiliation more politely. Nobody could be more polite, more religiously polite, than this old solicitor. I always think of him as an Archbishop."

"Well?"

"The first thing he broke to me-oh! with the utmost kindness, and as if it was an unexpected, sudden disaster, which nobody could understand-was that Sir Charles had already gone through the whole of his property. He had married me simply for my fortune: this was a pleasing discovery for a woman who thought something of herself. Well, I had enough to carry on the house, and it didn't seem to matter very much. Speculation on the Stock Exchange, this dear old man called it. I accepted the statement. As my husband was going to be Prime Minister some day, I accepted it without a murmur.”

"I fear it pains you to tell me these things, Dorabyn."

"Not so much as to brood over them in silence. The second blow fell when the Archbishop called again. He came to tell me, with sympathy most profound, that my husband had lost a large sum of money-many thousand pounds-which must be paid for him, in order to escape dishonour. Stock Exchange, he sweetly called it, again. When I refused to listen to any talk about Stock Exchange debts, he confessed that it was a gambling debt. And then the whole thing came out. The old man warned me plainly that one of two things would certainly happen. Either I should ruin myself in paying Charles's gambling debts, or he would fail to pay them and be expelled from his clubs, which would be social extinction. He has been, all the time, in spite of his austerity and his hard looks, a gambler acharné: there is a club to which he belongs where there is an inner circle: they play constantly; they play very high; they never talk about their play.”

"You paid that money?"

"He was going to become Prime Minister. One would give a great deal to become the wife of the Premier. Yes, I paid it. But as he had married me for my money I let him understand that henceforth he would get nothing but the money. So we parted, yet he remained under this roof. Was that right?"

"It seems right. Did you have to give more money?"

"Yes. Much more money. My once large fortune, Gilbert, has been seriously impaired. The man is insatiable: he would drink up all the money in the world. I made up my mind, at last, that even to become the wife of the Premier one might pay too high a price. And besides, there was the boy to consider. I sent him word by the Archbishop that I would not give him another penny. That message, I suppose, was the cause of what has happened."

"Yes?"

"I let the child go out just now because I could not bear to think that, even at his tender age, he should hear this terrible and shameful thing."

She could not, still, bear to tell it; she kept approaching the thing-talking about it-going away from it.

"It is the final blow," she went on, once more fencing with it. "It is, I do believe, the most terrible thing that has ever happened to any woman. Gambler or not, I could still take pride in his success. I could endure even to be ruined

if it were not for the boy. Many most honourable men have ruined their wives at the green table. Even then I could still be proud of him for his eloquence and his intellect. But this-this-oh! who can bear it?-who can bear it?" She wrung her hands-her cheek was hot and flushed-there were no tears in her eyes. "Who can bear such a blow, Gilbert ?"

Again, Dorabyn, do not pain yourself to tell me."

"I tell you it is worse to be silent with it. And nobody knows except you and me and the man to whom it happened. Oh! let me try to tell it exactly as it happened. It was two or three days ago I don't know when. He sat down to play at this club with his gambling friends. He had no money at all; there was nothing at his bank; to play at all was worse than madness; yet he played. He knew that I would give him no more money; he could not possibly pay the smallest loss; he knew that, for the sake of the boy, I was inflexible. Yet he played. And he lost. When they left off he had lost over three thousand pounds." "Yes-over three thousand pounds."

"Next day he paid his debts in full, as a man of honour must."

"His cheques were refused?"

"Not at all: the cheques were honoured.

Because, you see, a letter with a

cheque for £3500 had that morning been received at his bank; and the cheque was for the account of Sir Charles Osterley."

"Well ?"

"The cheque and the letter purported to come from my cousin, Lord Richborough." "And they did not?"

"No. They were forgeries. My husband forged them."

"But-Good Heavens! Was he stark, staring mad?"

"I suppose that he reasoned this way. 'No one will know who forged the cheque and sent the letter. I will say that I know nothing about it. My wife will give back the money to her cousin.' But I don't know how he reasoned. A gambler is a madman."

"Was the fact proved?''

"Yes. Beyond the possibility of any doubt. The handwriting was his-it was impossible to doubt this; there was the fact that, a day or two before, he had sent for his bank book, so that he knew there was nothing to his credit; and yet that morning he drew cheques for over three thousand pounds. And the forged cheque was torn out of his own book; for Lord Richborough and he had the same bank. The thing was quite simple as soon as the handwriting of the letter was discovered." "Well ? "

At

"My cousin called upon him, and charged him point-blank with the fact. first he expressed astonishment. Then my cousin explained the evidence of the And then he confessed."

case.

"Confessed? Good Heavens!" Gilbert was no longer listening with an impassive side face, like a father confessor; he was sitting upright in his chair facing the unhappy woman, with amazement written all over him. "He confessed?"

"My cousin anticipated this confession, and he had made up his mind what to do. He said that he would honour the cheque, so as to save a scandal: this he would do for my sake; but on conditions. Sir Charles must go away and kill himself as the price of silence. He pointed out that in this way Charles's honour, and my honour, and my son's honour would be preserved, and no one would ever know the real reason of the suicide. Would you believe it? He refused! Coward! --Coward!-Coward!" She wrung her hands passionately.

"Coward!" Gilbert echoed.

"Then my cousin, again for my sake, gave him another choice.

If he would,

that very day, resign everything-his post, his political career, his seat, his clubs-and leave the country never to return, he would not prosecute. He left the wretched man to find his own excuses; for his own part he promised-for my sake- silence. If he refused this offer he would be prosecuted in a court of justice."

"A dreadful alternative. And then?”

"He accepted. He went out of that room. Oh! Gilbert, much as I loathe and hate the man, I cannot bear to think of it; he went out of that room, I was told, with--what shall I say? the white despair of a man disgraced stamped upon his face. I try not to remember his agony at that moment, for fear of pitying the man. My cousin, who brought me the story, told me that the sight made him tremble. The tears came into his eyes while he told me. Oh, the horror of it! Oh, the shame of it! Gilbert! Think of it! He went out fallen-changed from a gentleman into a detected rogue, with the full knowledge of what detection meant to a man in his position! Oh! think of it-think of it! How could he?" "Indeed-how could he?" What more could Gilbert say? There are no words of consolation in such a case as this. Nothing can console. "In the morning-yesterday morning-his solicitor came-the Archbishop. assumed a face of deep sympathy: I had no doubt heard from Sir Charles of this sudden break-down-'long threatened, dear Madam, long expected, borne with fortitude.' I wonder how much he knows of the story. Sir Charles, he said, was ordered, as his only chance, to go abroad immediately. As he said nothing, not

He

even by way of keeping up appearances, of my going to see the man, I take it that he knows, or suspects, a good deal. But he will not talk. Meantime, on the subject of money. It was for no gambling debt, he explained, that he asked for money; but when a man smitten by sudden sickness-this old Pecksniff never even smiled-is told that his one chance is to go abroad, why, he must have some money to go with. 'I do not say,' he admitted, 'that my client has behaved well; however, forgiveness is the act of a Christian; he must have money, and perhaps under all the circumstances'—I think he guesses pretty well what they are -'it will be best for you to give him what he wants.' So I gave him a cheque for £500, with the firm assurance that nothing in the world would ever induce me to give him any more; that he might starve-and so on. I spare you the rest, Gilbert. Then I heard that you were at home, and I wrote to you. And you have come. There, Gilbert! you know all--and a very pretty whole it makes."

"Yes," he said: "this is the most miserable business I have ever heard. My poor Dorabyn! But the man has gone out of your sight. That is something."