The Professor and the Harpy

I.

Mother Church, who in bygone ages sheltered all the learning of the land beneath her broad wings, and who, even after this monopoly had passed away from her, continued to provide for learners and learned in a munificent fashion, has in these latter times been sadly shorn of wealth and patronage by the relentless march of progress and the Ecclesiastical Commissioners. Yet there is balm in Gilead. Here and there a sinecure has been suffered to remain for the benefit of those whose work is not altogether of the tangible kind so dear to the nineteenth century; here and there a Reverend Jack Horner, putting his thumb into the diminished pie of Church preferment, can pull out a plum, and, sitting down under the shadow of some gray cathedral tower, can draw soothing deductions after the manner of his juvenile prototype. A bishopric may no longer be a post of dignified ease, archdeacons may be men doomed to perpetual hurry and worry, wealthy pluralists may have become an extinct class, but a Canon of Lichbury Cathedral is still a personage whose comfortable dwelling and comfortable income are rather the acknowledgment of past distinction than the equivalent of any present labor. Not, of course, that the Dean and Chapter of Lichbury are a body of worn-out pensioners. It is by no means in that light that they are accustomed to regard themselves; nor, indeed, are they so regarded by any, except the ignorant and irreverent. If repose and competence have been bestowed upon them, it is not only because they have already enriched the world with the results of literary research, but that they may have more leisure to continue doing so. Some of them have achieved renown as authors of theological treatises, others are deeply versed in classical lore; while some, like Canon Stanwick, hold university professorships.

The latter divine was understood to owe his canonry (which had been conferred upon him at a comparatively early age) to that celebrated work, "The Life and Times of the Emperor Julian," in which an interesting character and an interesting period of history had been so exhaustively and impartially treated of as to leave no room for further exploration of the same ground. Whether, as his admirers declared, the Professor had surpassed Gibbon as triumphantly in the handling of his subject as Gibbon surpassed Voltaire and other earlier writers, and whether in the course of his well-weighed observations he had made out as good a case for the church which he represented as was possible and desirable, are questions which need not be discussed here. One consequence, at all events, of his accomplished task had been to place him in the front rank of living historians, and another had been his appointment to a vacant stall in Lichbury Cathedral.

This last reward of merit should have been especially grateful to him, for he was a bachelor of retired habits, whose life had been spent among his books, and to whom life had little left to offer in the way of attractions save increased opportunities for study; and, in fact, he was, as a general thing, very well satisfied with his lot. Nevertheless, as he paced up and down his smooth lawn one morning in August, he was in a less contented frame of mind than usual. The whispering of the summer breeze in the old elms, the cawing of the rooks, the occasional deliberate ding-dong of the cathedral clock far overhead, checking off the slumberous quarters and half-hours--all these familiar sounds had failed to produce upon him that sense of calm which is so conducive of thought; he had been compelled to lay aside the opening chapter of his new work, "The Rise of the Papacy," and to take to walking to and fro in the garden, with his hands behind his back and his gray head sunk beneath shoulders which were somewhat prematurely bowed.

The truth was that the Professor, like other professors, had once been young, and that the days of his youth had been vividly and unexpectedly brought back to him the night before. This is always a disturbing thing to happen to a man; and what made it particularly so in Canon Stanwick's case was that his youth had been marked by a trouble which he had taken terribly to heart at the time of its occurrence. To be jilted is no such rare experience, and to get over it with great rapidity is the ordinary lot of the jilted one; but some few strangely constituted mortals there are who never get over it, and of these Canon Stanwick happened to be one. Certainly, at the age of fifty-five he had long ceased to think with any bitterness of the shallow-hearted Julia to whom he had become engaged immediately after taking orders, and who had thrown him over in favor of a man of much greater wealth and higher position; he had, indeed, ceased to think about her at all. But not the less was it her conduct which had shaped the course of his life. By it he had been driven into deep study, into an Oxford professorship, and finally into a canonry; by it also he had been driven out of society, and especially out of female society, for which the treachery of one member of the sex had imbued him with a strong repugnance. At Oxford, where he had resided up to the time of his recent preferment, the ladies had quite given him up. It had been understood there that he did not care for the relaxation of dinner-parties and tea-parties; and it was a somewhat singular coincidence that, having from a sense of duty consented to break through his long-standing rule and dine with the Dean of Lichbury, he should have found himself seated opposite to his old love, whom, by another odd coincidence, he had wooed, won, and lost in that very neighborhood so long before.

This chance meeting had upset the worthy man a good deal. In the gray-haired but vivacious Mrs. Annesley who had claimed acquaintance with him across the table, he had scarcely recognized the heroine of his buried romance, nor had he either the wish or the power to resuscitate the tender feelings with which he had once regarded her; but the sight of her had stirred up old memories within him, and these had haunted him through the night, had prevented the Papacy from rising satisfactorily in the morning, and finally, as aforesaid, had sent him out into the open air, a prey to vague regrets.

So that elderly lady was Julia Annesley! And she had grown-up sons and daughters, about whom she talked a great deal; and her husband was dead--the husband for whom she had never cared, and whom she made little pretence of regretting. To all appearance, she regretted nothing. Why should she, when she had all that a woman could wish to have? Perhaps, thought the Professor, it might be a better thing to be the father of sons and daughters, when one was growing old, than to be the author of an unrivalled monograph on the merits and demerits of Julian the Apostate. To be sure, there was no reason why one shouldn't be both. And then he fell to wondering whether that ambition which had been the chief cause of Julia's infidelity could have been satisfied with such fame and social standing as an historian, a professor, and a canon may lay claim to. Only, if he had married Julia, he would probably have begun and ended as a country parson. He smiled at himself for indulging in such nonsensical fancies at his time of life; but he went on dreaming all the same until he was startled by the opening of a gate which connected his house with the Precincts.

Somebody strode with a brisk, ringing step up the brick pathway to the front door, singing loudly,--

"I loved her, and she might have been

The happiest in the land;

But she fancied a foreigner who played the clarinet

In the middle of a Ger-man band."

Then came a vigorous pull at the bell, followed by subdued whistling of the air of this apposite but vulgar ditty. It was not after so indecorous a fashion that the Professor's visitors were wont to approach him, and he could not resist the temptation to steal softly across the turf past the library windows and see who might be the author of all this disturbance. His curiosity was rewarded by a full-length view of a handsome, merry-looking young fellow in undress cavalry uniform, who himself happened to be peeping round the corner at that moment, and who at once advanced, saying: "Oh, how do you do? Canon Stanwick isn't it? My mother asked me to leave this note for you as I passed--Mrs. Annesley, you know. She says you and she are old friends."

"I am much obliged to you, sir," said the Professor in his grave voice, taking the note. "Pray come in."

"Can't, thanks," answered the other; "I must be off to barracks. See you this afternoon on the cricket-ground though, I hope. We've got a great match on--garrison against the county. We shall be awfully licked of course; but everybody will be up there, and it's something to do. Very glad to see you if you'll come to our tent. You'll find my mother there; the note's to tell you all about it. Good-bye for the present."

And with that this unceremonious young man clanked away, leaving the Professor, who had not looked on at a cricket match for a matter of thirty years, much amused. The note ran as follows:

Deanery, Lichbury: Thursday.

"Dear Canon Stanwick,--

I hope, if you are disengaged this afternoon, you will join our party on the cricket-ground, and give me the opportunity, which I sought in vain last night, of having a little talk with you. I am obliged to leave to-morrow morning, and I am so very anxious to have a few words with you before I go about my son, who is quartered here. Do come, and

"Believe me most sincerely yours,

"Julia Annesley."

"Oh, by all means," said the Professor, who had a solitary man's habit of thinking aloud. "I shall feel rather like a fish out of water among all those people; but never mind, I'll go. Only I can't think why you should want to talk to me about your son."

Perhaps the Professor was still a little in the dark as to this point, even after a long interview with Mrs. Annesley; though he certainly could not complain of any want of candor upon the lady's part. The Lichbury cricket-ground is justly celebrated both for its extent and for the beauty of its situation, and the numerous matches of which it is the scene during the summer season are always well attended. The Professor made his way through a double line of carriages and drags, feeling and looking very much like a man who has suddenly emerged from a dark room upon a crowded thoroughfare. The confused din raised by a large concourse of people, mingled with the strains of the military band which was in attendance, and the shouts of eager partisans of garrison or county, bewildered him; and it was only after repeated inquiries that he succeeded in reaching the entrance of the cavalry tent, where he stood for a minute blinking in the sunshine, and trying with shortsighted eyes to distinguish among the assemblage of gayly dressed ladies seated there the one of whom he was in search. But if he did not see her, she very soon saw him, and came forward, holding out a tiny pair of beautifully gloved hands.

"How good of you to come!" she exclaimed. "Suppose we take a turn round the ground; then we can talk quietly."

She was a bright, alert little woman, her gray hair, which was drawn straight up from her forehead, contrasting oddly with her still youthful complexion, and giving her somewhat of the appearance of an eighteenth-century marquise. The Professor was not quite sure whether he ought to offer her his arm or not, but finally deciding that this was unnecessary, made a grab at his shapeless felt hat, and muttered, "Delighted, I'm sure." He was a little embarrassed in the presence of his former love, whose first words showed that she, for her part, had no such foolish feeling.

"Is it not strange that we should meet again at Lichbury after all these years?" she began. "I have often thought of you, and often felt sorry." She paused and sighed. "One does not expect men to take things so seriously--generally, you know, it is the men who forget, and the women who suffer; but I suppose you are different. And I have spoilt your life!"

The Professor smiled. He was thinking that most people would hardly describe his life as having been a spoilt one; he was thinking, too, that the Julia who had caused him so much mental anguish in years gone by was quite another person from the complacent little lady who was trying to make apologies for her. He rather wished she would drop the subject; but he said nothing, and Mrs. Annesley resumed:

"You ought to hate me--I quite feel that; but doesn't some clever person say somewhere that we never hate those who have injured us, only those whom we have injured? I have injured you dreadfully; but for all that, I want to make friends--and to ask a favor of you into the bargain." She concluded her sentence with a little laugh and a side glance from eyes which had done much execution in their day.

"I am sure I shall be very glad if I can serve you in any way," said the Professor simply; "and I think we may very well agree to let bygones be bygones. It was something about your son, you said?"

"Ah, yes, poor fellow!" sighed Mrs. Annesley; "I can't tell you how anxious and distressed I am about him. He is quartered here with his regiment, the 27th Lancers, and he absolutely refuses to leave the service, though, as of course you know, he succeeded to a very large property when he came of age."

"He is still very young," remarked the Professor. "I should think another year or two of soldiering would do him no harm."

"But it is absurd for a man with three large country houses to live in barracks. I want him to marry and settle down. I want him--only this is strictly between ourselves--to marry Violet Cecil. She is such a charming girl, and so pretty--don't you think so?"

"Is she?" asked the Professor. "I scarcely know her."

"But you and Mr. Cecil were always such great friends, I thought."

"We had not met for many years until I came down here, and I have only seen Miss Cecil once. I did not notice her particularly."

"How funny of you! But I remember that you were never very observant. Well, I was going to tell you about poor Bob--oh! there he is. I should like so much to introduce him to you."

"He introduced himself to me this morning," observed the Professor, smiling.

"Oh, did he? Well, I could not introduce him now, at any rate," said Mrs. Annesley, meaningly.

The Professor adjusted his glasses, and following the direction of her gaze, made out his visitor of the morning, who had exchanged his uniform for a suit of cricketing flannels, and who was pacing along by the side of a tall, fine-looking woman with dark hair. The young man wore a downcast look, and his evident unwillingness to raise his eyes seemed to show that he was conscious of his mother's vicinity.

"Oh, I see!" said the Professor, with a perspicacity which did him credit.

"Yes; isn't it dreadful? What any man can find to admire in such a woman I can't conceive."

"She is handsome and--very well dressed," hazarded the Professor, after another survey of the lady's retreating form.

"Well dressed!" ejaculated Mrs. Annesley, throwing up her hands. "If you can say that, you would say anything. Pale blue satin and imitation lace--good gracious! But of course you don't understand these things."

"Certainly," the Professor agreed, "I am no judge of such matters. But who is this lady?"

"Ah, who indeed? That is exactly what nobody knows. She is a Mrs. Harrington--at least, that is what she calls herself; and I believe she is one of those dreadful harpies who follow regiments about all over the world and ruin poor young men--or rather, rich young men. She is not exactly disreputable, I am told; I only wish she were!--No, I didn't mean that--I forgot you were a clergyman. I beg your pardon, I'm sure."

"Don't mind me," said the Professor. "And so you are afraid that she will marry your son?"

"I can't bear to say so; but it does look terribly like it, and I am so powerless. I have no influence over Bob, and it is impossible for me to remain down here; I have all my other children to look after, you know. Of course it would never do to breathe a word to the Cecils; otherwise they might be able to save him, for I am sure he is really fond of Violet. It struck me that perhaps you might give me a helping hand."

"I will most gladly, if I can," replied the Professor; "but I confess I don't at present see what I can do."

"I am sure you could influence him in a quiet way; and then you might try to throw him as much as possible with the Cecils. You will have plenty of opportunities of doing that, if you look for them. And perhaps you would be very kind and write me a line every now and then to tell me how matters are going."

The Professor shook his head and said he feared Mrs. Annesley was leaning upon a broken reed. Nevertheless, he promised to do his best; and promises with him always meant a good deal. For the sake of old days he was willing to do Mrs. Annesley a kindness; for the young man's own sake he would gladly have disappointed the harpy; finally, he thought he would be rendering no small service to his friend Cecil, if he could bring about a marriage between the daughter of that not very wealthy country gentleman and one of the richest bachelors in England. The only question was how to set about achieving so desirable a result. He debated this problem for some time after Mrs. Annesley had been called away from his side by other acquaintances, and he was still standing with his hands behind his back, frowning meditatively, when Mr. Cecil, a fresh-colored squire, who lived within a few miles of Lichbury, caught sight of him and greeted him warmly.

"Hollo, Stanwick! who'd have thought of seeing you on the cricket-ground? This is an unexpected honor for the club."

"I didn't come here to look at the cricket; I came to see a very old friend of yours and mine--Mrs. Annesley," the Professor explained.

"Ah, to be sure! How time does go on! Do you remember what a pretty girl she was, and how desperately in love we all were with her? You were as hard hit as any of us, if I recollect rightly. In fact, I believe she was engaged to you in a sort of a way, wasn't she?"

"In a sort of a way--yes."

"And then she threw you over because she wanted to be rich and fashionable and all that. Well, well! she has had her reward. Have you seen her often since those days?"

"Never until yesterday."

"You don't say so! You can hardly have recognized one another, did you? Both you and she have got on in life and got on in the world since you parted. Julia is a leader of society, and mixes freely with duchesses, which satisfies her soul; and you are one of the celebrities of the day. It now only remains for me to get a prize for my pig, and then we shall all three have reached the highest distinctions attainable in our respective walks in life."

"Yes, yes," murmured the Professor dreamily; and presently he quoted in an undertone, "What shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue!"

"I'll be hanged if anybody shall call my pig a shadow!" returned Mr. Cecil, laughing, as he walked away. And then the Professor strolled slowly back to the quiet Precincts and "The Rise of the Papacy."

II.

A Man may be a learned historian and a dignitary of the Church, and yet retain a good deal of that diffidence which is more becoming than common among his juniors. Canon Stanwick, for one, carried modesty almost to the dimensions of a vice. He was very shy of young men; he did not know what to say to them; he felt convinced--possibly not without reason--that they must find him an old bore; and how to ingratiate himself with a dashing young cavalry officer was a puzzle beyond the compass of his imagination to solve. However, he had pledged his word that he would do this, and accordingly, on the day after the cricket match, he asked a few friends to dinner, and invited Mr. Annesley to join the party.

The young man came, and made himself so agreeable to the old ladies and gentlemen whom he met that they were delighted with him, and allowed him to monopolize the lion's share of the conversation. Which thing they would assuredly not have permitted in the case of any ordinary lancer or hussar; for in Lichbury the Church is disposed to look a trifle askance at the Army, and to stand upon its dignity with the representatives of the latter, who are overmuch given to riot and unseemly pranks. But about this particular lancer there was a perfect simplicity of thought and language which, combined with a touch of military swagger, was quite irresistible; and so it came to pass that Canon Stanwick's first dinner party proved the merriest that had been given in the Precincts for many a long day. As for the Professor, he began to feel a quasi-fatherly interest in the son of his former flame, and when the rest of the guests had departed, ventured to detain him.

"Do you ever--er--smoke a cigar before going to bed?" he asked hesitatingly.

"I should be precious sorry to go to bed without smoking a cigar," answered the other, laughing.

"Oh," said the Professor. "Well, I have formed the same habit myself, and if you had nothing better to do, and cared to keep me company for half an hour in my study, I could offer you a tolerably good cigar, I think; and--and I believe you'll find some soda-water and brandy on the table."

So presently this oddly matched pair were seated opposite to one another in the spacious room which served its present owner as library and study, the busts of Roman emperors and Greek philosophers looking down upon them from above the bookcases with an air of grave surprise. The Professor was a little timid and awkward at first, but the younger man soon set him at his ease, and when he had received a good deal of amusing information about the inhabitants of Lichbury and its neighborhood, he thought he might feel his way towards the subject which he was determined to broach.

"I know very few people in these parts," he remarked; "I have not been here long, and am generally much occupied. But I have a long-standing acquaintance with the Cecils, who I think are also friends of yours."

"Oh, rather!" responded the young man heartily. "Known them all my life. Awfully jolly people--awfully good old chap, old Cecil. And Mrs. Cecil--she's awfully jolly too."

Bob Annesley's vocabulary of adjectives made up in emphasis what it lacked in variety.

"And Miss Cecil?" the Professor said. "I have only been fortunate enough to meet her once, but I am told that she is a singularly beautiful and charming young lady."

This leading observation elicited a somewhat less cordial assent from Bob, who murmured, "There's no question about that," and looked rather grave for a few seconds.

"I was thinking," went on the wily Professor, "that I should very much like to see more of her, her father having been such an intimate friend of mine in former years; but I hesitate to ask young people into my dull house unless I can provide some sort of amusement for them. Do you think there would be room for a lawn-tennis court in the garden?"

"Oh, Lord bless your soul, yes!" answered the young man, rising to the fly most satisfactorily; "heaps of room. I'll tell you what: if you'd like me to mark out the court for you, I'll do it to-morrow with the greatest of pleasure, and I could make up a four any day that suited you and Miss Cecil."

"I should be very much obliged to you. Let me see; you would want another lady, wouldn't you?" said the Professor, with some fear that his accommodating guest might offer to bring Mrs. Harrington.

He was relieved to find that no such indiscretion was contemplated. The young man said there were the Dean's daughters, or failing them, there was Mrs. Green, the wife of one of his brother officers, who was a first-rate player and a friend of the Cecils. He could easily get her and her husband to come, and he was sure the Professor would like them.

So far, so good. There would apparently be no difficulty in bringing the young people together; and as for the harpy, perhaps the moment had hardly yet come for declaring war upon her. In the course of the few following days the Professor tried to find out more about this mysterious lady; but the canons knew nothing of her, and the canons' wives sniffed and said that she was a person whom nobody visited, although, upon being pressed, they admitted that there was nothing definite against her. Possibly, after all, she might prove less formidable than Mrs. Annesley had supposed, and the Professor was confirmed in this hope by the evident admiration with which Bob regarded Miss Cecil. That young lady willingly consented to drink tea and play tennis in the Precincts, and closer inspection showed that her personal attractions had been in no way exaggerated. Not only did she possess a quantity of golden-brown hair, and eyes of the darkest blue, shaded by long curved lashes, but her features, complexion, and figure were all perfect, and she had an enchanting smile. If any young man could prefer the vulgar charms of a Mrs. Harrington to these, he must be a very extraordinary young man indeed; and the Professor, watching the tennis-players from his cane arm-chair in the shade, smiled as he thought to himself that Bob Annesley had none of the outward and visible signs of an extraordinary young man. Furthermore, he noticed that Annesley and Miss Cecil remained partners throughout; and though this might be a trivial basis upon which to build conclusions, there was surely some significance in the fact that after each game these two sauntered away together, leaving Captain and Mrs. Green to entertain their host with polite conversation.

When play was over for the day, a renewal of the contest at an early date was agreed upon, and after three such meetings the Professor felt justified in despatching a consolatory note to Mrs. Annesley. "I really think you may make your mind quite easy," he wrote, "I have had your boy and Cecil's girl playing tennis in my garden several times; and even so inexperienced a looker-on as myself cannot fail to perceive that if ever two people were in love with each other, they are. The 'harpy' I have not yet met, nor am I likely to do so; but Captain Green of your son's regiment tells me that she is what is called a garrison hack--a term not known to me, but which I take to mean broadly that she is ready to flirt with all, and is consequently dangerous to none."

The folly of generalization was one to which the Professor was fully alive in dealing with matters of historical interest; and had the question before him been of that kind, he would have been the first to point out that, though this lady might not be dangerous qua garrison hack, there was no sure ground for assuming that she was not dangerous qua Mrs. Harrington. Mrs. Annesley's grateful reply to his letter did not reach him before he had begun to repent of his haste in communicating with her.

It was upon the occasion of an afternoon party, given by the officers of the 27th Lancers, that Canon Stanwick was privileged to make Mrs. Harrington's acquaintance. Had he been left to consult his own inclinations, he would not have been present at this entertainment; but the Cecils, who had driven in from the country to attend it, invited themselves to luncheon with him, and then carried him away by main force, alleging that it would do him good to see more of his neighbors. As a matter of fact, however, he was not benefited in this particular way, for the cathedral dignitaries seldom showed themselves at the barracks, and he searched the mess-room and ante-room in vain for any familiar face. He remained beside the Cecils, and presently accompanied them to the lawn in front of the building, where some younger members of the assemblage were playing tennis. Then it was that he became aware of Mrs. Harrington, attended by young Annesley, and was able to scrutinize her a little more nearly than he had done on the cricket-ground. She was a tall, striking-looking woman, not in her first youth. No doubt she was rather over-dressed, and the Professor noticed that she was more anxious to appear at her ease than successful in doing so. He noticed, besides, that the other ladies fought shy of her, and that his friend Bob, who stood by her side, looked anything but happy.

After a time the couple drew near to the spot where the Cecil family were seated, and from the expression of despair visible upon the young man's face, and the mixture of triumph and defiance exhibited by the lady, it was easy to guess what was going to happen next. The Professor, from living so much alone, had got out of the habit of repressing his emotions; and when he realized that this daring woman had demanded an introduction to Mrs. Cecil, he gave vent to a loud, abrupt chuckle, which caused everybody to turn round and look at him and overwhelm him with consequent confusion. Thus he missed the actual formality which had moved him to mirth by anticipation; but he recovered himself in time to see that it had taken place, that Mr. and Miss Cecil were looking grave and annoyed, and that Mrs. Cecil had assumed that stony demeanor with which she was wont to cow the presumptuous.

Mrs. Cecil was not a lady with whom it was advisable to take liberties. A great liberty had been taken with her now, and, while holding in reserve the punishment of the chief offender, she made things very uncomfortable for his accomplice. Having bowed to Mrs. Harrington, she became absorbed in some distant object of interest, and failed to hear the bland remarks addressed to her by her new acquaintance. A deep silence had fallen upon the surrounding group. Mrs. Cecil was still seated; the other lady was standing in front of her chair, and the Professor, looking on from the background, thought to himself that, if he were in Mrs. Harrington's shoes, he would run away.

But it was Bob Annesley, and not Mrs. Harrington, who adopted that pusillanimous course. That intrepid woman remained firm, and, with a determined smile upon her pale face, forced Mrs. Cecil to speak to her.

"I asked Mr. Annesley to introduce me to you," she was saying, "because I think we ought to know each other, being both of us so intimate with him."

"Oh, I didn't know," replied Mrs. Cecil coldly. Perhaps she would have liked to say that she was not so very intimate with Mr. Annesley; but when one has a daughter whom one is naturally anxious to marry well, one is apt to be debarred from indiscriminate retorts. After a pause, she asked, without removing her eyes from the distant view, "Are you staying any time at Lichbury, Mrs.--er--?"

"Harrington," replied the other. "Well, I don't quite know. It will depend a good deal upon the regiment. I always like to be where the 27th are."

"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Cecil; and the amount of astonishment, contempt, and disgust which she managed to condense into that one word was quite an achievement in its way.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Harrington went on cheerfully, "I follow the drum. My object is to get as much fun out of life as possible, and I don't know any better way of doing that than living in a garrison town."

"Violet," said Mrs. Cecil, "I think I see some vacant places on the other side of the lawn. We will go over and sit there." And so saying, she arose and swept majestically away, leaving Mrs. Harrington surrounded by a number of silent persons who appeared anxious to stare her out of countenance while at the same time resolutely ignoring her.

The poor woman's position was really a cruel one, and signs that she felt it to be so were not wanting. She flushed for a moment, then turned pale again, and stood, not unlike a hunted animal, while those merciless ladies enjoyed her discomfiture. The Professor, who knew what agony he himself would have suffered under such treatment, could not help being very sorry for her. So sincere was his compassion, and so strongly did he disapprove of the base practice of hitting those who are down, that he was moved at last to do an unusually bold thing. He advanced abruptly to the side of the unfortunate pariah, upsetting a chair on his passage, and said in a nervous, hesitating way, "What a beautiful afternoon, is it not?"

Mrs. Harrington turned a pair of astonished and rather angry eyes upon him. Most likely, at the first moment, she took this queer-looking cleric for an emissary of the enemy; but a glance at his face must have reassured her, for a quick change of expression came over her own, and the Professor was rewarded by a singularly pleasant smile, and a word or two spoken without any of that harshness of intonation which had been noticeable in Mrs. Harrington's voice a few minutes before. Having thus entered his little protest against bullying, he would gladly have retired from so conspicuous a position, but he was a man who was wholly unable to extricate himself from any position, conspicuous or other, without help, and so he went on conversing with Mrs. Harrington for a matter of five minutes, at the end of which time he mentally qualified her as a very intelligent and agreeable person. "I wonder," thought he, "why she chose to speak in such an objectionable manner just now." And then, with his unlucky habit of thinking aloud, he said musingly, "I suppose she wanted to shock Mrs. Cecil. Well, I can't blame her."

Mrs. Harrington laughed. "You are quite right," she observed; "that was what I wanted to do. But you ought to blame me, for it was not at all worth while to shock Mrs. Cecil, and I brought her rudeness upon myself."

The Professor, in great distress, began to stammer out an apology, which he was not permitted to finish. "There is no need to beg my pardon," Mrs. Harrington interrupted: "you only said what you thought, and it is not often that one has the good fortune to hear any one do that. I wish you would go on. I should like to hear what you think of me, for instance--or rather no; that would not be very interesting. I should prefer hearing what you think of Mrs. Cecil."

"The Cecils are old friends of mine," said the Professor, with a slight accent of reproof.

"Then you need not hesitate to say what you think of them, for one does not, as a rule, think badly of one's friends. I am interested in them on Mr. Annesley's account. He is a great deal at their house, is he not?"

"Yes, I believe so," answered the Professor, stroking his chin pensively. A strong desire to come to the point prompted him to add, with some audacity, "People say that he is likely to become engaged to Miss Cecil, but that may be only an idle report."

Mrs. Harrington's large black eyes had a considerable store of latent fire in them. It flashed out now upon her companion with a suddenness which made him start; but in an instant she had recovered her composure. "It is an idle report," she said quietly. "There is no truth in it."

"Indeed? Is it not a little difficult to speak with certainty upon such points?"

Mrs. Harrington made no verbal reply, but stepping slightly aside, so as to see and be seen by a group of which Miss Cecil was one, and Bob Annesley another, she beckoned to the young man, who responded by an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Thereupon she repeated her signal more peremptorily, and he, with obvious reluctance, obeyed it.

"I want you to see me home," she said as soon as he was within speaking distance.

"Oh, all right," answered Annesley; "but couldn't you wait a little bit?"

"No," returned Mrs. Harrington; "I want to go now. I am tired."

Then, with a gracious bow to her late interlocutor, she moved away, Bob Annesley walking somewhat shamefacedly by her side.

It was thus that the Professor was made aware that Mrs. Harrington was indeed dangerous, though not precisely in the manner which he had ventured to disclaim on her behalf.

III.

Bob Annesley was one of those deservedly popular persons who can be understood at once by the least experienced students of character. Good nature was his dominant quality, and when you had said that he was good-natured, you had said very nearly all that there was to be said about him. The Professor, who had not lived for so many years at Oxford without discovering what is the ordinary destiny of young men thus gifted or afflicted, had no difficulty in casting Bob's horoscope. "That woman has got a hold upon the poor boy, don't you see?" said he, addressing himself to the busts in his library. "He was in love with her once, and he is tired of her now; but he will never have the courage to tell her so. The question, therefore, is, how are his friends to get him out of her clutches?"

But the busts continued to stare straight before them, without making any reply, and the Professor, not being fertile in expedients, could think of no better course of treatment than renewed doses of Miss Cecil and lawn-tennis. He was prepared, if driven to extremities, to make a direct appeal to Mrs. Harrington, for he conceived that her nature had a side which might be appealed to with success; but he shrank from employing so drastic a remedy until all others should have proved unavailing, and he lost no time in endeavoring to arrange another of those meetings which had already produced, or had seemed to produce, a hopeful result.

In this well-meant attempt he was foiled by the recalcitration of both the parties concerned. Mrs. Cecil, desirous though she might be to see her daughter make an unexceptionable match, was not likely to fall into the error of openly pursuing her quarry, and the young lady herself was probably offended by what had taken place at the barracks. However this may be, the Cecils regretted their inability to avail themselves of Canon Stanwick's repeated invitations; while Bob, if his own account was to be believed, was at this time perpetually on duty. Thus several weeks elapsed during which it was impossible to report progress to Mrs. Annesley, who wrote impatiently, complaining that her son never told her anything, and entreating that she might not be kept needlessly in the dark. Had it not been for these letters, the Professor, whose mind, after all, was occupied with other matters than matchmaking, might have washed his hands of the whole business; but he was reminded by them that he had promised to do his best, and so, when at length he chanced to encounter Mrs. and Miss Cecil and Bob Annesley in the same room, he profited by the opportunity, and engaged the whole three of them to lunch with him before they had time to make excuse.

Every one who has ever tried to set the affairs of his neighbors straight for them must be aware that those who pursue this course lay themselves open not only to ingratitude, but to positive contumely. When, on the day appointed, the Cecils duly made their appearance, and when at the last moment a card was brought from Bob Annesley, on which was scribbled, "Very sorry, can't possibly come to luncheon, but will turn up for tennis afterwards"--when, I say, this untoward incident occurred, the Professor was at once made to feel how blameworthy had been his conduct. Mrs. Cecil was so cross and snappish that a less submissive man would have turned upon her in the first five minutes; and even Violet, whose disposition was naturally sweet, was silent and preoccupied, and made no effort to soften down her mother's uncivil speeches. And what was still worse was that, after luncheon was over, and Captain and Mrs. Green had arrived with their racquets in their hands, that wretched Bob failed to redeem his promise. They waited an hour for him in vain, and then, as it was evident that no set could be made up, the Cecils went away in a huff, while the Professor, quite upset, betook himself to the cathedral, where, being in residence, he had to read the evening lessons, and where in his agitation he made St. Paul say, "Bobs, love your wives," before he could stop himself.

Passing through the cloisters after the conclusion of the service, he saw dimly a male and a female figure walking before him, and his ears caught the sound of what appeared to be an altercation. By the time that he had got his glasses settled upon his nose, and had approached a little nearer to the disputants, they wheeled round and revealed themselves as no other than Bob and Mrs. Harrington. Both of them started, and Mrs. Harrington, with a bow, turned abruptly and walked away. Bob, looking rather sheepish, stood his ground and began to mumble some apology for having broken his engagement, but the Professor cut him short.

"Annesley," said he, "will you come into my house for a few minutes? I wish to speak to you."

The Professor, albeit of a mild temper, had been a don, and knew how to assume an aspect of sternness when necessary. Bob Annesley, on the other hand, was both by nature and training prone towards obedience. Presently, therefore, the two men were closeted in the Professor's study, where the following dialogue ensued.

"I want to know what you mean by this, Annesley?"

"Mean by what?"

"Why, by making love to two women at the same time. Don't tell me you haven't made love to them: I have seen you. And don't tell me to mind my own business either, because a great deal of this--this trifling has gone on in my garden, and I feel myself in a measure responsible for the consequences. I cannot," continued the Professor, warming with his subject, "allow the hearts of young ladies to be broken within sight of my library windows; and I am bound to tell you, Annesley, that I consider your conduct highly discreditable."

Bob shook his head sorrowfully, but did not offer to defend himself, so the Professor had to go on scolding.

"Were I you, I should be ashamed of such unmanly vacillation. It is very plain that you either do not know your own mind, or that, knowing it, you are afraid to declare it. You will not, I suppose, deny that you have entangled yourself with one lady while you wish to marry the other."

No answer.

"Tell me, at least, one thing: are you, or are you not, in love with Miss Cecil?"

"Oh, come--I say--hang it, you know!" exclaimed Bob; but the Professor, paying no heed to this incoherent remonstrance, repeated his question in a determined manner.

"Very well, then--yes!" called out the young man despairingly. "I am in love with her--and I can't marry her. Now I hope you're satisfied."

The Professor said, "Far from it." On the contrary, that bare statement was eminently unsatisfactory, and required explanation. He could well understand that there might be obstacles in the way of a marriage which appeared to be desirable and desired, but let us hear what those obstacles were, and try what could be done towards removing them.

Bob, however, was obdurate, declaring that he couldn't and wouldn't say another word about the matter, except that the obstacles referred to were irremovable. He was the most unfortunate beggar that ever stepped, but talking about it wouldn't make it any better. "And I don't think you have the least right to blow me up like this," he added, as he rose and made for the door. "You asked me to come here and meet her, and I came. Flesh and blood couldn't resist that. I've kept away for the last three weeks though, as you know, and I shall keep away in future. I dare say you have meant kindly, but you shouldn't be in such a deuce of a hurry to jump to conclusions."

With that he made good his retreat, while the Professor, left to himself, looked up at Marcus Aurelius and murmured sadly, "It doesn't do, you see. The human animal in his lower stages of development must be guided by patience and kindness, and by these means alone."

IV.

Whether in Bob Annesley's case kindness would have proved more effectual than harshness was a question which the Professor was unable to bring to the test of experience; for a few days after the interview just described Mrs. and Miss Cecil left home, and did not return until late in the autumn.

During their absence, of which Mrs. Annesley was duly apprised, the Professor had a respite. He received no more importunate letters, he saw little of the misguided young lancer, and he employed himself agreeably in writing that brilliant chapter upon Pope Boniface VIII. and the bull Ausculta, fili, which has since been so justly praised by the critics. Absorbed in these congenial studies, and feeling that, for the time being, it was vastly more important to arrive at the truth with regard to the instructions given by Philippe le Bel to Nogaret than to unravel any contemporary mystery, the good man almost forgot Mrs. Harrington's existence, and it was not until the month of October, when Captain Green, whom he chanced to meet one day, informed him that she had left Lichbury for some destination unknown, that his interest in her revived, and he began to wonder whether anything could have caused her to relinquish her prey.

Shortly afterwards he caught sight of Bob Annesley, clanking down the High Street in full war-paint and feathers, and crossed the road on purpose to say, "So Mrs. Harrington has gone away, I hear."

"Yes," answered the young man gloomily; "but she is coming back, again."

The Professor passed on. He foresaw that there was going to be trouble, but he did not want to meet it halfway. "Time enough for that when the Cecils come home," thought he as he regained his quiet dwelling, and dived once more into the dark recesses of the thirteenth century.

The Cecils came home early in November; but Bob and Violet met no more in the Precincts, the excuse of lawn-tennis being, indeed, no longer available at that season. That they met elsewhere the Professor had ocular proof, for he saw them several times riding together; moreover, the Dean's wife informed him that everybody said it was to be an engagement. The Professor held his peace, remembering one person who had said with some confidence that it would never be anything of the sort; and when that person reappeared suddenly upon the scene, it seemed clear that the tug of war was at hand. The first intimation of coming unpleasantness which reached the Professor took the form of a visit from Mr. Cecil, who said he wished to have his old friend's candid opinion about young Annesley.

"He has been a good deal up at my place of late; and though of course one is very glad to see him, and all that, one would like to know a little more of him. Mrs. Cecil will have it that he is ambitious of becoming our son-in-law. Well, that may or may not be so, and I don't think it necessary to repeat to her all that I hear in the town about him and Mrs. Harrington; but I may confess to you, Stanwick, that I feel uneasy on Violet's account. What do you think I ought to do?"

"Ask him his intentions," answered the Professor promptly.

"Oh, my dear fellow, I can't possibly do that. I would as soon bring an action for breach of promise against a man as ask him his intentions."

"Yet you want to know them, I suppose?"

"That is quite another thing. One wants to know a great deal that one can't ask about. I want to know who this Mrs. Harrington is, for instance, and what her intentions are."

"Well," said the Professor, with a sigh, "I dare say I might be able to help you there. At all events, I'll try."

He perceived that the time had come when he must have recourse to that direct appeal to the harpy which he had contemplated some months before. The necessity was grievous to him; but he faced it like the courageous old gentleman that he was, and having found out Mrs. Harrington's address from the stationer in the market-place, set out to call upon her that same afternoon.

Mrs. Harrington occupied lodgings on the first floor of a small house near the cavalry barracks. The dreary shabbiness of her little drawing-room was accentuated by some of those attempts at decoration with which a woman of scanty means and no taste commonly surrounds herself. The faded curtains were drawn back through loops of equally faded ribbon; the walls were adorned with a few staring chromo-lithographs; the mantelpiece and the rickety table had borders of blue satin and coffee-colored lace; the back of the piano was swathed in spotted muslin over blue calico, like a toilet-table, and upon it stood a leather screen for photographs, from which various heavily moustached warriors, in and out of uniform, gazed forth vacantly.

These and other details were lost upon the Professor, who only wished to say his say and be gone. He had rehearsed the probable course of the interview beforehand, and was ready with a remark which should at once render the object of his errand unmistakable; but he had omitted to make allowance for the unforeseen, and therefore he was completely thrown out on discovering two long-legged officers seated beside Mrs. Harrington's tea-table.

It is safe to conclude that that lady was a good deal astonished when Canon Stanwick was announced, but she rose to the level of the occasion and introduced him immediately to her other visitors. "Canon Stanwick, Captain White--Mr. Brown. And now let me give you all some tea."

The Professor would have liked to say that he would call again some other time, but felt that he had not the requisite effrontery; so he sat down, took a cup of tea, and wished for the end. He was very awkward and confused, feeling sure that the two officers must be laughing at him; but in this he was mistaken. Those gentlemen, if not remarkable for intellect, had perfectly good manners, and would wait until they reached the barrack square before permitting themselves to burst into that hilarity which the notion of Polly Harrington closeted with a parson must naturally provoke. In the meantime, they did not do much towards lightening the labor of keeping up conversation. This duty fell chiefly upon Mrs. Harrington, who acquitted herself of it as creditably as any one could have done, and who established a claim upon the Professor's gratitude by talking with as much propriety as if she had been herself a canoness. His preconceived idea was that propriety of language was about the last thing that could be expected from such ladies as Mrs. Harrington when, so to speak, in the regimental circle. Nevertheless, he did not find himself able to second her efforts towards promoting a general feeling of cordiality and the next quarter of an hour passed away very slowly. At length it flashed across Captain White that the old gentleman meant to sit him out, and as soon as he had made this brilliant discovery he rose with great deliberation, pulled down his waistcoat, pulled up his collar, and said he was sorry that he must be going now. Thereupon Mr. Brown went through precisely the same performance, and intimated a similar regret. Mrs. Harrington did not offer to detain them. She accompanied them to the door, talking as she went, kept them for a minute or two on the threshold while she arranged to ride with them to the meet on the following day, and then returned smiling, to hear what Canon Stanwick might have to say for himself.

Now she knew as well as anybody to what she owed the honor of the Professor's visit; but she did not see why she should make his path smooth for him. Therefore she smiled and held her tongue, while he, after some introductory commonplaces, managed to drag Bob Annesley's name, without much rhyme or reason, into the current of his remarks.

"A promising young fellow," he said; "but, like other young fellows, he gives his friends some anxiety at times. His mother, poor thing, is feeling very uneasy about him just now."

"Mothers," observed Mrs. Harrington, "generally do feel uneasy about their sons. That is because they have such a difficulty in realizing that their sons may be old enough to take care of themselves."

"But they can't take care of themselves," rejoined the Professor eagerly. "At least, he can't take care of himself. His position, as no doubt you are aware, differs in some respects from that of his brother officers, and I think that if you or I were in his mother's place, we should wish, as she does, that he should leave the army, live upon his property, and--and make a suitable marriage."

"Yes," said Mrs. Harrington: "and why is his mother uneasy?--because he won't leave the army, or because he won't make a suitable marriage?"

"Well, for both reasons, I believe. I think I mentioned to you some time ago that there was a talk of his marrying Violet Cecil, and I have since ascertained that his own feelings incline him towards a match which would give great satisfaction to all those who are interested in him; but unfortunately it appears that he is hampered by some previous entanglement with--with----"

"With an unsuitable person?" suggested Mrs. Harrington, still smiling.

The Professor paused. He wanted to enlist Mrs. Harrington's sympathies, and to arouse the generosity which he was convinced that she possessed. Under the circumstances, was it politic to begin by telling her that she was unsuitable? However, he reflected very sensibly that there would be no getting on at all unless that much were either said or implied; and he felt, besides, that he was already in so uncomfortable a predicament that nothing could very well make it worse. This gave him courage to reply,--

"I fear we must pronounce her so. All other considerations apart, the fact that he no longer wishes to make her his wife should be conclusive. He might feel--and I don't say that he ought not to feel--bound in honor to her; but it seems to me that she is equally bound in honor to release him from his engagement."

"Oh, you think she is bound to release him?"

"I do," answered the Professor firmly. "Yes; I may say without any hesitation that that is what I think."

"I am not quite sure that I agree with you," said Mrs. Harrington. "I can't, of course, form any guess as to who the person to whom you allude may be; but let us put an entirely imaginary case, and see how it looks from the lady's point of view. Because, you know, even unsuitable women have their point of view, and some of them might be disposed to think their happiness almost as important as Mrs. Annesley's. Let us take the case of a woman with whom life has gone very hardly--a woman who was married young to a husband who ill-treated her, deserted her, and left her at his death with a mere pittance to live upon. Well, this imaginary woman is not very wise, let us say, although she has no great harm in her. She is fond of amusement, she likes riding, she likes dancing, and we won't disguise that she likes flirting too. She has no near relations; so, instead of taking lodgings in a suburb of London, or hiring a cottage in the depths of the country, as no doubt she ought to do, she attaches herself to a cavalry regiment in which she has friends, and she rides her friends' horses and dances at their balls, and has great fun for a time. Perhaps it serves her right that this way of going on causes her to be cut by all the ladies, wherever she betakes herself; perhaps she doesn't care a straw for that at first, and perhaps she cares a great deal as she grows older. Perhaps she sees no way of escape from a kind of existence which she has learnt to hate, and perhaps that serves her right again. What do you think, Canon Stanwick?"

The Professor's honesty compelled him to reply, "I should not blame her for seizing any opportunity of escape from it that offered."

"Yet most people would blame her; she would have to make up her mind to that. We are supposing, you know, that Mr. Annesley is the way of escape that offers itself, and when this forlorn woman seizes him ecstatically she must expect his friends and relations to tear their hair and call her bad names. I dare say that would trouble her very little. After knocking about the world for so many years, she wouldn't be over and above sensitive, and she would know perfectly well that, when once she was married and had plenty of money, everybody, including her husband's relations, would be civil enough to her. But now, just as she is exulting in the prospect of peace and plenty, lo and behold! the miserable young man goes and falls in love with somebody else. What is she to do? You, in an off-hand sort of way, answer, 'Oh, let him go free, of course;' but I, on the side of the poor disappointed woman, venture to say that she should be guided by circumstances. Suppose she knew this good-natured Bob Annesley to be a man who couldn't break his heart about anything or anybody if he tried ever so hard? Suppose she knew that she was quite as well able to make him happy as Miss Cecil? Mightn't she in that case be justified in thinking a little bit about her own interests, and holding him to his promise?"

"I can't answer positively," said the Professor, sighing. "Justification must depend entirely upon the standard by which we judge. All I know is, that if such a woman as you describe resolved to sacrifice her worldly prospects she would err upon the safe side."

"Such a woman as I describe would probably differ from you there," observed Mrs. Harrington.

"No!" exclaimed the Professor suddenly, bringing his stick down upon the floor with an emphatic thump. "You may say that, but I don't believe it. I believe her to be a good-hearted and high-minded woman, in spite of all that she may have gone through. I believe that she has a conscience, and I believe that she will end by obeying it, no matter at what cost."

"You must know a great deal about her," said Mrs. Harrington, raising her eyebrows. "Are you not forgetting that she is a purely imaginary person?"

The Professor was about to reply, but what he was going to say will never be known, for at this inopportune juncture the door opened, and who should walk in but Bob Annesley himself! The three persons thus unexpectedly confronted with one another all lost their presence of mind a little, and the Professor could not afterwards have given any coherent account of what happened next, or of how long an interval elapsed before he found himself in the street again; but as he wended his way homewards, he astonished more than one passer-by by calling out in a loud, distinct voice, "She'll let him go! mark my words, sir, she'll let him go!" And when he had reached the privacy of his own study, he added confidentially, "And between ourselves, I'm not by any means sure that she isn't worth a dozen of the other."

V.

It is one thing to make a sudden and enthusiastic profession of faith in a prodigy, and it is quite another to reiterate that profession in cold blood the next morning. The Professor did not find himself able to accomplish the latter feat. Calmer reflection showed him that he had given Mrs. Harrington credit for the most extreme disinterestedness, not because of any single thing that she had said or done, but simply from an instinctive feeling that her nature was nobler than it appeared to be upon the surface. Now instinctive feelings do not ordinarily commend themselves as a sound foundation for faith or sober philosophers on the shady side of fifty; and the Professor, while maintaining the high opinion which he had formed of the harpy, wished that he had not been interrupted just when he was upon the point of asking her in plain terms whether she intended to marry Bob Annesley or not. It is possible that he might have called again and repaired the omission, had he not at this time found it necessary to consult certain authorities at the British Museum; and when once he was in town a variety of accidents detained him there. After that he had to go down to Oxford, so that, what with one thing and another, it was very nearly a month before he was in Lichbury again.

Almost the first person whom he saw after his return was Bob Annesley, and Bob's round face wore an air of such profound dejection that even a short-sighted and absent-minded man could not help noticing it.

"All well here, I hope?" said the Professor interrogatively. "Have you seen our friends the Cecils lately?"

Bob shook his head. "Never go there now." He added, with something of an effort, "I shall never go there any more; I shall be out of this before long. Sent in my papers last week."

"What!" exclaimed the Professor, rather startled. And then, as they were near his door, "Come in," he said, "and tell me all about it."

The young man obeyed listlessly. "You may as well be told all about it now," he remarked; "everybody will have to know soon."

The Professor was greatly perturbed, feeling that he had been somehow to blame in absenting himself at a critical time. He did not ask for further explanations, but having preceded his young friend into the library, began at once: "This must not be allowed to go on, Annesley. I am sincerely sorry for Mrs. Harrington, but I can't think it right that two people should be made miserable in order that she may be provided with a large income. I am disappointed in her, I confess. I had hoped--but no matter. Since she won't break with you, you must break with her; and possibly some sort of compensation might be offered in a delicate manner----"

"I can't break with her," interrupted Bob quietly. "We were married three weeks ago."

The Professor's consternation was too great to be expressed in any vehement fashion. He could only murmur under his breath, "Dear, dear! what a sad pity!"

"There was no help for it," said Bob. "I promised her ages ago that I would marry her if her husband died, and I couldn't go back from my word when the time came."

"Her husband!" ejaculated the Professor. "This is worse than I thought. Do I understand you that she has had a husband alive all this time?"

"Well, he died a month or two ago--when she was away in the summer, you know. He had behaved awfully badly to her--deserted her soon after they were married. It was no fault of hers."

"It was certainly a fault of hers to receive another man's addresses while she was still a married woman," said the Professor severely.

"Oh, well, if you like to call it so; but I suppose I was as much in the wrong as she was. Anyhow, I was bound to her. I told her about--about Violet, you know, but she didn't seem to think that made much difference. So, you see, there was no getting out of it," concluded Bob simply.

"There is no getting out of it now," remarked the Professor, with a rueful face; "and I don't think you have improved matters by getting married in this hole-and-corner way. What was your object in doing that?"

"She thought it would be better," answered the young man indifferently; "and, as far as that goes, I agreed with her. It has saved us a good deal of bother with my people; besides which, I didn't care to let all the fellows in the regiment hear about it before I left."

The Professor groaned. He saw that the only course open to him, or to any of Bob's friends, was to make the best of a bad business; but for the moment he could think of nothing except what a very bad business it was, and after promising to keep the secret until it should be a secret no longer, he allowed the young man to depart without offering him a word of consolation. Why he should have felt moved, some hours later, to walk over to the lodgings which were still occupied by the bride, he would have been puzzled to explain. She could not undo what she had done, nor was there anything to be gained by upbraiding her. Perhaps it was rather a strong feeling of curiosity than anything else that led him to her door.

Having learnt that she was at home and alone, he followed the servant upstairs, and was presently in the shabby little drawing-room so well known to the officers of the 27th. Mrs. Harrington--to call her by the name which she had not yet formally resigned--rose from the chair in which she had been sitting by the fireside, and turned a curiously altered countenance towards her visitor. The Professor was at once struck by her extreme pallor, and by her air of weary despondency. To look at her, one would have thought that she had just sustained a crushing defeat, instead of having gained a victory.

"You have seen Bob!" she began.

"Ah!" sighed the Professor, speaking out his thoughts without ceremony, "I fear you have made a terrible mistake, both of you."

"Yes," she answered, and said no more, though he waited some time for her to explain herself.

"What made you do it?" he exclaimed at length. "You must have known that you were laying up an endless store of wretchedness for your husband and yourself; and I can hardly believe that you were influenced only by the motives that you mentioned when I was here last."

"There was one motive which I didn't mention," said Mrs. Harrington. "You hardly know enough about me to be amused by it; but I have no doubt that the regiment would consider it an exquisite joke if I were to assert that I had married Bob Annesley because I loved him. And yet it isn't very odd that I should love him. He was crazily in love with me once; he was kind to me when no one else was kind; he treated me like a lady; while other men, who by way of being my friends, were insulting me, more or less directly, every day. Oh, I know what you are saying to yourself. You are saying that if I had really cared for him at all, I should not have married him against his will. But I thought I might reckon without his will--he has so little of it. That has always been Bob's defect; and I don't mind saying so, because it is the only defect that I have ever discovered in him. I believed that I could win him back, and that, when once we were married, he would forget his fancy for Miss Cecil, as he has forgotten other fancies before. Now that it is too late, I have found out that I was wrong. If I had known three weeks ago as much as I know now, I would have died a thousand times rather than have married him. He hates me, and I am rightly punished for my blindness and obstinacy."

She had spoken quietly at first, then with a good deal of excitement; but now her voice dropped to a whisper as she crouched down over the fire, muttering, "Yes, I am punished--I am punished!"

The Professor frowned. He disliked melodrama, and had no great belief in a repentance which could be evidenced only by words. "Perhaps money and lands may afford you some consolation," he observed rather cruelly.

Mrs. Harrington did not notice the sneer. "Why did you go away and leave me alone with my temptation?" she cried suddenly. "You might have prevented this."

"I cannot flatter myself," answered the Professor coldly, "that my influence with you would have been sufficiently strong for that."

"It was stronger than you think. I liked you; you had been kind to me, and I was ready to listen to you. I have not forgotten how you stood by me that day when Mrs. Cecil turned her back upon me; women in my position don't forget such things. But you went away just when I most needed a friend, and so I allowed myself to be deceived by my vain hopes."

"If any words of mine could have caused you to think twice before you took this irrevocable step," returned the Professor, "I can only regret most sincerely that business should have called me away at so important a moment; but there is little use in discussing what might have been. The only thing for you and your husband to do now is frankly to accept a situation from which you cannot escape."

"Unless by means of an over-dose of chloral," suggested Mrs. Harrington, with a faint smile.

The Professor got up. "Mrs. Harrington," said he, "you may yet prove yourself an excellent wife and make your husband happy; but you can hardly expect to do this easily or immediately. And if I were you, I would not begin by making speeches which are silly if they are insincere, and wicked if they are not."

Thereupon he left the room without further leave-taking, while she, still bending over the fire, appeared unconscious alike of his rebuke and of his exit. The Professor, as he walked home, felt that he had been very severe, yet not unwarrantably so. "She is a foolish, theatrical woman," he said to himself; "and I strongly suspect that all that exaggerated penitence was assumed for a purpose. Of course her chief object now will be to conciliate her mother-in-law, and she probably imagines that my report of her may carry some weight in that quarter. But she makes a mistake, because I shan't report anything about her--good, bad, or indifferent. No more meddling with other people's business for me!"

VI.

The Professor would undoubtedly have felt confirmed in the harsh judgment which he had passed upon Bob Annesley's wife if he could have seen her at the meet on the following morning. Mrs. Harrington was a finished horsewoman, and never looked to so great advantage as in the saddle. Upon the present occasion she rode a fidgety chestnut mare, the property of Captain White, and the ease with which she managed her rather troublesome mount won her a great deal of admiration from the local members of the hunt. As for the officers of the 27th, they were too well accustomed to Polly Harrington's dexterity to pay her any compliments on that score; but they clustered round her as usual, and smiled amiably at her smart sayings, and told her that she was in rare form that morning. Bob hovered in the background, looking woebegone.

The neighborhood of Lichbury does not bear a very high character among hunting men, blank days being of by no means rare occurrence thereabouts, but there is always a fox at Lingham Gorse, and it was at Lingham Gorse that a fox was found on the particular morning with which we are concerned. The whole crowd got away together, and kept together for the first five minutes, going at racing speed across the short turf of the downs at the foot of which Lichbury stands. On this the northern side, the gradual slopes of these hills form as good and safe galloping ground as any one could wish for; but their southern face is very different, falling away in precipitous chalk quarries and sharp declivities unwelcome to timid riders, and it was after crossing the backbone of the ridge that the field began to scatter right and left, only a few adventurous spirits riding straight ahead and trusting in Providence.

Among these was Mrs. Harrington. She was followed by Annesley and Captain White, the latter of whom was watching her headlong progress a little anxiously, and wishing, perhaps, that his chestnut mare were safe in her stable. It was not, however, any fear on the mare's account that caused him to rein in suddenly and ejaculate "Good God!" About a furlong ahead, a row of posts and rails had come into view, immediately beyond which--as every one who knew the country was well aware--was a chalk cliff some two hundred feet in depth. It seemed incredible that any human being, whether familiar with the country or not, should ride at such a fence, for there was nothing but sky visible upon the other side of it; but Mrs. Harrington was making straight for it now, and it was the discovery that she was doing so that called forth Captain White's exclamation. He raised his hand to his mouth and sent a warning shout after her, and Bob, who saw the danger at the same moment, shouted too; but Mrs. Harrington did not appear to hear either of them, and, indeed, it was already too late for warnings to be of any avail. For an instant horse and rider rose dark against the gray sky, then vanished; and to those who waited there, helpless and horror-struck, it seemed as if some minutes elapsed before the dull crash came which told them that poor Polly Harrington had taken her last leap.

"Awful thing!--most shocking sight I ever saw in my life!" Captain White said, describing the catastrophe, some months afterwards, to an old brother officer. "But she must have been killed like a flash of lightning--there's some comfort in that. And, though I wouldn't say so to any one else, I can't help thinking that the poor woman's death was about the best thing that could have happened. Fancy her having got Bob Annesley to marry her on the sly! Only shows what fools fellows are, eh? You've heard that he's engaged to that pretty Miss Cecil now, haven't you? It isn't given out yet, of course, and I suppose they'll have to let a year go by before they announce it formally; but everybody knows about it down in these parts."

Probably many less plain-spoken persons than Captain White agreed with him in thinking the unfortunate harpy's death the best thing that could have happened; but it may be hoped that Bob Annesley was not consciously among the number. The suddenness and the ghastly nature of the calamity gave him a shock from which his elastic spirits took a long time to recover; but he began to be more cheerful again after meeting Canon Stanwick, and putting into words a dread which he had not liked to mention to other friends.

"I say," he asked hesitatingly, and keeping his eyes upon the ground, "do you believe--do you believe that--she did it on purpose?"

The Professor evaded the question so cleverly that his interrogator quite imagined that he had answered it.

"I do not think," he said gravely, "that we have any right whatever to cast such an aspersion as that upon her memory."