"I must, yet I cannot! I must not, yet I must." It was the old clash of powers, the old conflict of commands, the old ruthless will of nature that makes right too hard and yet fastens anguish upon sin--that makes us yearn for and hate the higher while we love and loathe the lower.

CHAPTER XV.

THE WORK OF A WEEK.

Much went to spoil the stay at Dieppe, but the only overt trouble was the feeble health of the Baron von Geltschmidt. The old man had rapidly made his way into the liking of his new acquaintances. Semingham found his dry, worldly-wise, perhaps world-weary, humour an admirable sauce to conversation; Adela Ferrars detected kindness in him; his gallant deference pleased Lady Semingham. They were all grieved when the cold winds laid hold of him, forced him to keep house often, and drove him to furs and a bath-chair, even when the sun shone most brightly. Although they liked him, they implored him to fly south. He would not move, finding pleasure in them, and held fast by an ever-increasing uneasy interest in Willie Ruston. Adela quarrelled with him heartily and energetically on this score. To risk health because anyone was interesting was absurd; to risk it on Ruston's account most preposterous. "I'd be ill to get away from him," she declared. The Baron was obstinate, fatalistic as to his health, infatuated in his folly; stay he would, while Ruston stayed. Yet what Ruston did, pleased him not; for the better part of the man--what led him to respond to kindness or affection, and abate something of his hardness where he met no resistance--seemed to be conspiring with his old domineering mood to lead him beyond all power of warning or recall.

A week had pa.s.sed since Ruston paid his first visit to Mrs. Dennison in the cottage on the cliff. It was a bright morning. The Baron was feeling stronger; he had left his chair and walked with Adela to a seat. There they sat side by side, in the occasional talk and easy silences of established friendship. The Baron smoked his cigar; Adela looked idly at the sea; but suddenly the Baron began to speak.

"I had a talk with our friend, Lord Semingham, this morning," said he.

"About anything in particular?"

"I meant it to be, but he doesn't like talk that leads anywhere in particular."

"No, he doesn't," said Adela, with a slight smile.

The Baron sat silent for a moment, then he said,

"May I talk to you, Miss Ferrars?" and he looked at her inquiringly.

"Why, of course," she answered. "Is it about yourself, Baron? You're not worse, are you?"

He took no notice of her question, but pointed towards the cliff.

"What is happening up there?" he asked.

Adela started. She had not realised that he meant to talk on that subject.

He detected her shrinking and hastened to defend himself.

"Or are we to say nothing?" he asked. "Nothing? When we all see! Don't you see? Doesn't Miss Valentine see? Is she so sad for nothing? Oh, don't shake your head. And the other--this Mrs. Dennison? Am I to go on?"

"No," said Adela sharply; and added, a moment later, "I know."

"And what does he mean?"

"He?" cried Adela. "Oh, he's not human."

"Nay, but he's terribly human," said the old Baron.

Adela looked round at him, but then turned away.

"I know what I would say, but I may not say it," pursued the Baron. "To you I may not say it. I know him. He will take, if he is offered."

His voice sank to a whisper.

"Then G.o.d help her," murmured Adela under her breath, while her cheeks flamed red.

"Yes, he will take, and he will go. Ah, he is a man to follow and to believe in--to trust your money, your fortune, your plans, even your secrets to; but----"

He paused, flinging away his extinct cigar.

"Well?" asked Adela in a low tone, eager in spite of her hatred of the topic.

"Never your love," said he; and added, "yet I believe I, who am old enough to know better, and too old to learn better, have almost given him mine. Well, I am not a woman."

"He can't hurt you," said Adela.

"Yes, he can," said the Baron with a dreary smile.

Adela was not thinking of her companion.

"Why do you talk of it?" she asked impatiently.

"I know I was wrong."

"No, no. I mean, why do you talk of it now?"

"Because," said the Baron, "he will not. Have you seen no change in him this week? A week ago, he laughed when I talked to him. He did not mind me speaking--it was still a trifle--nonsense--a week ago; if you like, an amus.e.m.e.nt, a pastime!"

"Well, and now?"

"Now he tells me to hold my tongue. And yet I am glad for one thing.

That girl will not have him for a husband."

"Glad! Why, Baron, don't you see----"

"Yes, I see. Still I am glad."

"I can't go on talking about it; but is there no hope?"

"Where is it? For the time--mind you for the time--he is under that other woman's power."

"She's under his, you mean."

"I mean both. She was a friend of yours. Yes. She is not altogether a bad woman; but she has had a bad fortune. Ah, there she is, and he with her."

As he spoke, Mrs. Dennison and Ruston came by. Mrs. Dennison flung them a glance of recognition; it was hardly more, and even for so much she seemed to grudge the interruption. Ruston's greeting was more ceremonious; he smiled, but his brows contracted a little, and he said to his companion,

"Miss Ferrars isn't pleased with me."

"That hurts?" she asked lightly.

"No," he answered, after a short pause, "I don't know that it does."