'Because she is a good, gentle girl, and could not bear to make her father and mother unhappy. The blame is all theirs--mean, shallow, grovelling souls!'

'What about her mother now?'

'Oh, she was never so obstinate as the old jacka.s.s. She'll have little enough to live upon, and we shall soon arrange things with her somehow.

Is it credible that human beings can be so senseless? For years now, their means have been growing less and less, just because the sn.o.bbish idiot _would_ keep up appearances. If he had lived a little longer, the widow would have had practically no income at all. Of course, she shared in the folly, and I'm only sorry she won't suffer more for it.

They didn't enjoy their lives--never have done. They lived in miserable slavery to the opinion of their fellow-sn.o.bs. You remember that story about the flowers at their silver wedding: two hundred pounds--just because Mrs. Somebody spent as much--when they couldn't really afford two hundred shillings. And they groaned over it--he and she--like people with the stomachache. Why, the old fool died of nothing else; he was worn out by the fear of having to go into a smaller house.'

Harvey would have liked to put a question: was it possible that the daughter of such people could be endowed with virtues such as become the wife of a comparatively poor man? But he had to ask it merely in his own thoughts. Before long, no doubt, he would meet the lady herself and appease his curiosity.

Whilst they were talking, there came a knock at the door; the shopman announced two ladies, who wished to inquire about some photographic printing.

'Will you see them, Rolfe?' asked Cecil. 'I don't feel like it--indeed I don't. You'll be able to tell them all they want.'

Harvey found himself equal to the occasion, and was glad of it; he needed occupation of some kind to keep his thoughts from an unpleasant subject. After another talk with Morphew, in which they stuck to business, he set off homeward.

Here news awaited him. On his arrival all seemed well; Ruth opened the door, answered his greeting in her quiet, respectful way, and at once brought tea to the study. When he rang to have the things taken away, Ruth again appeared, and he saw now that she had something unusual to say.

'I didn't like to trouble you the first thing, sir,' she began--'but Sarah left yesterday without giving any notice; and I think it's perhaps as well she did, sir. I've heard some things about her not at all nice.'

'We must find someone else, then,' replied Harvey. 'It's lucky she didn't go at a less convenient time. Was there some unpleasantness between you?'

'I had warned her, for her own good, sir, that was all. And there's something else I had perhaps better tell you now, sir.' Her voice, with its pleasant Welsh accent, faltered ominously. 'I'm very sorry indeed to say it, sir, but I shall be obliged to leave as soon as Mrs. Rolfe can spare me.'

Harvey was overwhelmed. He looked upon Ruth as a permanent member of the household. She had made herself indispensable; to her was owing the freedom from domestic hara.s.sment which Alma had always enjoyed--a most exceptional blessing, yet regarded, after all this time, as a matter of course. The departure of Ruth meant conflict with ordinary servants, in which Alma would a.s.suredly be worsted. At this critical moment of their life, scarcely could anything more disastrous have happened. Seeing her master's consternation, Ruth was sore troubled, and hastened to explain herself.

'My brother's wife has just died, sir, and left him with three young children, and there's no one else can be of help to him but me. He wanted me to come at once, but, of course, I told him I couldn't do that. No one can be sorry for his wife's death; she was such a poor, silly, complaining, useless creature; he hasn't had a quiet day since he married her. She belonged to Liverpool, and there they were married, and when he brought her to Carnarvon I said to myself as soon as I saw her that _she_ wouldn't be much use to a working-man. She began the very first day to complain and to grumble, and she's gone on with it ever since. When I was there in my last holiday I really wondered how he bore his life. There's many women of that kind, sir, but I never knew one as bad as her--never. Everything was too much trouble for her, and she didn't know how to do a thing in the house. I didn't mean to trouble you with such things, sir. I only told you just to show why I don't feel I can refuse to go and help him, and try to give him a little peace and quiet. He's a hard-working man, and the children aren't very healthy, and I'm sure I don't know how he'd manage----'

'You have no choice, Ruth, I see. Well, we must hope to find some one in your place--_but_----'

Just as he shook his head, the house-bell rang, and Ruth withdrew to answer it. In a minute or two the study door opened again. Harvey looked up and saw Alma.

'I was obliged to come,' she said, approaching him, as he rose in astonishment. 'I thought at first of asking you to come on to Basingstoke, but we can talk better here.'

No sign of pleasure in their meeting pa.s.sed between them. On Harvey's face lingered something of the disturbance caused by Ruth's communication, and Alma understood it as due to her unexpected arrival; the smile with which she had entered died away, and she stood like a stranger doubtful of her reception.

'Was it necessary to talk?' asked Rolfe, pushing forward a chair, and doing his best to show good humour.

'Yes--after your reply to my letter this morning,' she answered coldly.

'Well, you must have some tea first. This is cold. Won't you go and take your things off, and I'll tell Ruth. By-the-bye, we re in confusion.'

He sketched the position of things; but Alma heard without interest.

'It can't be helped,' was her absent reply. 'There are plenty of servants.'

Fresh tea was brought, and after a brief absence Alma sat down to it.

Her health had improved during the past week, but she looked tired from the journey, and was glad to lean back in her chair. For some minutes neither of them spoke. Harvey had never seen an expression on Alma's features which was so like hostility; it moved him to serious resentment. It is common enough for people who have been several years wedded to feel exasperation in each other's presence, but for Rolfe the experience was quite new, and so extremely disagreeable, that his pulses throbbed with violence, and his mouth grew dry. He determined to utter not a word until Alma began conversation. This she did at length, with painful effort.

'I think your answer to me was very unkind.'

'I didn't mean it so.'

'You simply said that you wouldn't do as I wished.'

'Not that I wouldn't, but that it was impossible. And I showed you the reasons--though I should have thought it superfluous.'

Alma waited a moment, then asked----

'Is this house let?'

'I don't know. I suppose not.'

'Then there is no reason whatever why we shouldn't stay here.'

'There is every reason why we shouldn't stay here. Every arrangement has been made for our leaving--everything fully talked over. What has made you change your mind?'

'I haven't really changed my mind. I always disliked the idea of going to Gunnersbury, and you must have seen that I did; but I was so much occupied with--with other things; and, as I have told you, I didn't feel quite the same about my position as I do now.'

She expressed herself awkwardly, growing very nervous. At the first sign of distress in her, Harvey was able to change his tone.

'Things are going horribly wrong somehow, Alma. There's only one way out of it. Just say in honest words what you mean. Why do you dislike the thought of our moving?'

'I told you in my letter,' she answered, somewhat acridly.

'There was no explanation. You said something I couldn't understand, about having a _right_ to ask me to stay here.'

She glanced at him with incredulous disdain.

'If you don't understand, I can't put it into plainer words.'

'Well now, let _me_ put the whole matter into plainer words than I have liked to use.' Rolfe spoke deliberately, and not unkindly, though he was tempted to give way to wrath at what he imagined a display of ign.o.ble and groundless jealousy. 'All along I have allowed you to take your own course. No, I mustn't say "allowed", the word is inapplicable; I never claimed the right to dictate to you. We agreed that this was the way for rational husband and wife. It seemed to us that I had no more right to rule over you than you to lay down the law for me. Using your freedom, you chose to live the life of an artist--that is to say, you troubled yourself as little as possible about home and family. I am not complaining--not a bit of it. The thing was an experiment, to be sure; but I have held to the conditions, watched their working.

Latterly I began to see that they didn't work well, and it appears that you agree with me. This is how matters stand; or rather, this is how they stood until, for some mysterious reason, you seemed to grow unfriendly. The reason is altogether mysterious; I leave you to explain it. From my point of view, the failure of our experiment is simple and natural enough. Though I had only myself to blame, I have felt for a long time that you were in an utterly false position. Now you begin to see things in the same light. Well and good; why can't we start afresh?

The only obstacle is your unfriendly feeling. Give me an opportunity of removing it. I hate to be on ill terms with you; it seems monstrous, unaccountable. It puts us on a level with married folk in a London lodging-house. Is it necessary to sink quite so low?'

Alma listened with trembling intensity, and seemed at first unable to reply. Her agitation provoked Harvey more than it appealed to his pity.

'If you can't do as I wish,' she said at length, with an endeavour to speak calmly, 'I see no use in making any change in my own life. There will be no need of me. I shall make arrangements to go on with my professional career.'

Harvey's features for a moment set themselves in combativeness, but as quickly they relaxed, and showed an ambiguous smile.

'No need of you--and Ruth going to leave us?'

'There oughtn't to be any difficulty in finding someone just as good.'

'Perhaps there ought not to be; but we may thank our stars if we find anyone half as trustworthy. The chances are that a dozen will come and go before we settle down again. I don't enjoy that prospect, and I shall want a good deal of help from you in bearing the discomfort.'

'What kind of help? Of course, I shall see that the house goes on as usual.'