THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET.. 
143 
“ I trust that you are able to say from your experience 
that our friend’s case is a good one.” 
“ Unfortunately, my experience in such cases does 
not count for much; but I have just been telling Mrs. 
O’Bryan that, in my opinion, he is safe.” 
“ I did not doubt it, but I am much relieved by heal¬ 
ing this from you. I wish to ask one question on my 
own account. Shall I be required to appear in court as 
a witness? I ask this because, although I am quite 
ready to do so if necessary. I am anxious to avoid it if 
possible, for family reasons.” 
“ I am afraid it will be necessary. But that question 
will be best answered by the solicitor who undertakes 
the case; and it is advisable that you should see one im¬ 
mediately. This gentleman, I have no doubt, will do 
what he can for Mrs. O'Bryan’s son." 
He handed to the widow the piece of paper on which 
he had written the solicitor’s address. The good woman 
expressed her gratitude with Hibernian warmth, promis¬ 
ing to return soou to report progress. 
“lean only thank you again, Mr. Calthorpe,” said 
Miss Cuthbert calmly. They bowed; he opened the 
door with the same politeness which he would have 
shown to a perfect stranger, and she passed out. 
The door closed ; it was all over, so quietly, so politely ; 
they had spoken to each other again, and there had not 
been one word more than the business in hand demanded. 
Their lives were indeed divided. 
CHAPTER XVII—HIS WAY OF IT. 
Well— of all the cold-blooded pieces of cruelty he had 
ever heard or read of, this was the most atrocious ! To 
come to him while the breath announcing her engage¬ 
ment was still warm in the air; to stand there and speak 
to him as calmly as if he were no more than a respecta¬ 
ble man of business who was to be paid for his services! 
—it was the most deliberate and heartless insult that 
could be offered to any poor creature. 
Good God !—what was she made of? Could she have 
any feeling at all? And did she think that he had none 
—that he was as cold and passionless as herself? Yet 
she could uot be passionless either: he had good reason 
to know that. But then, her display of passion had been 
the pitiful outburst of offended vanity, not offended 
love. Without a doubt she had come there, moved by 
some vicious curiosity to look once more at the man she 
had thrown aside so contemptuously, and to prove to 
him that she was quite indifferent about the past. How 
calmly she spoke : how calm she looked—and how 
beautiful! . . . yes ; bo she what she might, in soul she 
was still beautiful, and those eyes were to him still full 
of a soft light which seemed to be the moon-reflection 
of a glorious sun within. 
But it was unpardonable—her coming there at such a 
time: coming at the very hour when lie was flattering 
himself that it was possible to accept the dull round of 
the humdrum existence she had left him. He had been 
vaguely sensible that he was falling into his dull groove 
and was beginning to have some glimpses of that peace 
of mind which is obtained in a state of sheer stupidity, 
and which was worth having, although there are in it 
no days of great hope and happy endeavor. She came 
and again arose that terrible mental Frankenstein, called 
“ What-might-have-been!” 
But he had been calm, too, throughout the interview; 
he had been busiuess-like and polite: nothing more. 
He hoped he had been polite; he meant to be so—per¬ 
fectly polite. He meant to show her every possible sign 
of respect, and only to hide from her how every nerve 
was thrilling with the wild craving merely to touch her 
hand. She had not seen that and she could not feel it. 
Yet the longing had been upon him all the time, and the 
effort to conceal it made it hard to bear. There she was, 
standing before him—Lucy. He heard her voice, and 
no matter what its tone, something modulated the 
sound into the sweet voice of Lucy. 
It was useless striving with this thing which had not 
only taken possession of his being, but was his being. 
He hated to call it love: the meaning of the poor word 
had become so degraded by its application to any pass¬ 
ing whim of a boy or the fancy of a girl—having as 
much bearing upon the actual business of their lives as 
the temporary mania of the one for a bicycle and of the 
other for a new dress. This strange thing which held 
him, like Victor Hugo’s devil-fish, was his life. He 
smiled at the droll simile; probably devil-fish was as 
ood a name as could be found for this mysterious 
omething which gave pain as intense as its pleasure. 
And so. she was to marry Sir Frederick Powell, of 
Woodstow : it was a good match. He was a sensible 
fellow, with no absurd views about anything ; an easy¬ 
going mortal, good-natured and happy, because he was 
content to follow the plain beaten paths before him, and 
never had a thought of stepping aside to seek impossible 
flowers through impenetrable mazes. She would be 
happy with such a man—that was something. Maurice 
could fancy her in the first wedded years enjoying all 
the pleasur es which wealth could obtain, and passing on 
to contented matronhood, quietly performing the round 
of simple duties which would fall to her lot. And 
through all this Powell would be by her side. Then he 
could see Lucy sharing the drudgery of a hardworking 
life with himself, the long path made thorny by petty 
cares and perhaps failure at the end. It was well she 
was spared that trial: there was no question, she had 
chosen the right course and he ought to be glad. Was 
that sharp twinge of pain only the sting of regret ? He 
hoped it was not jealousy, for jealousy is only an open 
confession of how little one thinks of one’s self. 
He wished he could stop thinking about her. How 
ridiculous he would appear in the eyes of any sensible 
man for surrendering himself even for a day to this 
state of hopelessness! What, for instance, would Ark- 
wood say ? 
“ Say that lie thought you had gone out and forgotten 
to fasten the door.” 
In liis impatience with himself, Maurice had uttered 
the last question aloud, and Arlcwood answered it in 
person. 
“I don’t think that would have been your answer if 
you knew what I was grumbling about.” 
“ What might it have been?” 
“ That I was the most hopeless imbecile that had ever 
been born.” 
“ The observation would have been a very stale one,” 
rejoined Arkwood with a faint attempt to speak in a 
tone of good-natured banter; but he looked serious ag 
he scanned his friend’s face. “ I think I know what is 
uppermost in your mind. Your father has been with 
me.” 
“Then do not repeat anything of what he has said. 
Some day, perhaps, I sliali tell you my story; mean¬ 
while help me to forget.” 
“ Very good. Then come away to lunch! ” 
CHAPTER XVHI—HER WAY OF IT. 
Unforgiving —pitiless—callous 1 She had not detected 
the faintest note of regret in liis voice, and she felt sure 
that her quickened senses would have felt it had there 
been any in his heart. She had been treated as a perfect 
stranger; he had accepted her angry words literally, 
and he could never have cared for her or it would have 
been impossible for him to behave so coolly in her pres¬ 
ence. Not the slightest sign in word or manner that he 
wished to be forgiven, or that he believed she had any¬ 
thing to forgive. 
Proud and remorseless! She might have asked him 
to forgive her if he had only spoken one kind word. 
But no ; he forgot, or never thought of all she had 
suffered, and remembered in his pride only her one blun¬ 
der. She knew that she had blundered terribly in her 
passion, and he would not forgive her. For that one 
fault he cast everything else aside and shook himself 
free from her, as composedly as he might have put 
away an old garment. From whatever place she might 
have formerly held in his thoughts, he had completely 
thrust her out, and evidently ithad cost him no trouble. 
What a fool she had been 1 How he would triumph 
in her weakness! She had actually gone to his cham¬ 
bers, sought him out herself and asked his help ! She 
had done this—she who had threatened to insult him if 
he ever dared to speak to her. He would not give a 
thought to the peculiar circumstances of the case which 
had induced her to seek his aid. If he were reminded 
