She hesitated.

"No, don't tell him that," she said. "Do you remember a few lines of poetry of his at the end of his last volume of criticisms? There is a little clump of firs on the top of a bare wind-swept hill, with the moon shining faintly through a veil of mist, and a man and woman standing together like carved figures against the sky, listening to the far-off murmur of the sea."

"Yes, I remember it," he said slowly.

"Then will you tell him that some one--some one who has seen such a place as he describes, is----?"

"I will tell him," Mr. Carlyon answered. "I think that he will come now."

He left her again, and went back towards Mr. Maddison. Just as he got within speaking distance he saw a slight quiver pa.s.s across the white face, as though he had recognized some one in the crowd. Mr. Carlyon hesitated, and decided to wait for a moment.

They were standing face to face, Sir Allan Beaumerville, the distinguished baronet, who had added to the dignity of an ancient family and vast wealth, a great reputation as a savant and a _dilettante_ physician, and Mr. Bernard Maddison, whose name alone was sufficient to bespeak his greatness. In Sir Allan's quiet, courteous look, there was a slightly puzzled air as though there were something in the other's face which he only half remembered. In Mr. Maddison's fixed gaze there was a far greater intensity--something even of anxiety.

"Surely we have met before, Mr. Maddison," the baronet said easily.

"Your face seems quite familiar to me. Ah! I remember now, it was near that place of Lord Lathon's, Mallory Grange, upon the coast. A terrible affair, that."

"Yes, a terrible affair," Mr. Maddison repeated.

"And have you just come from ----shire?" Sir Allan asked.

"No; I have been abroad for several months," Mr. Maddison answered.

"Abroad!" Sir Allan appeared a little more interested. "In what part?"

he asked civilly.

"I have been in Spain, and the south of France, across the Hartz mountains, and through the Black Forest."

"Not in Italy?" Sir Allan inquired.

There was a short silence, and Sir Allan seemed really anxious for the reply. It came at last.

"No; not in Italy."

Sir Allan seemed positively pleased to think that Mr. Maddison had not extended his travels to Italy. There was a quiet gleam in his eyes which seemed almost like relief. Doubtless he had his reasons, but they were a little obscure.

"Ah! Shall you call upon me while you are in town, Mr. Maddison?" he asked, in a tone from which all invitation was curiously lacking.

"I think not," Mr. Maddison answered. "My stay here will be brief. I dislike London."

Sir Allan laughed gently.

"It is the only place in the world fit to live in," he answered.

"My work and my tastes demand a quieter life," Mr. Maddison remarked.

"You will go into the country then, I suppose."

"That is my intention," was the quiet reply.

"Back to the same neighborhood."

"It is possible."

Sir Allan looked searchingly into the other's calm, expressionless face.

"I should have thought that the a.s.sociations----"

Mr. Maddison was evidently not used to society. Several people said so who saw him suddenly turn his back on that charming old gentleman, Sir Allan Beaumerville, and leave him in the middle of a sentence. Lady Meltoun, who happened to notice it, was quite distressed at seeing an old friend treated in such a manner. But Sir Allan took it very nicely, everybody said. There had been a flush in his face just for a moment, but it soon died away. It was his own fault, he declared. He had certainly made an unfortunate remark, and these artists and literary men were all so sensitive. He hoped that Lady Meltoun would think no more of it, and accordingly Lady Meltoun promised not to. But though, of course, she and every one else who had seen it sympathized with Sir Allan, there were one or two, with whom Sir Allan was not quite such a favorite, who could not help remarking upon the grand air with which Mr. Maddison had turned his back upon the baronet, and the dignity with which he had left him.

Mr. Carlyon, who had been watching for his opportunity, b.u.t.tonholed Maddison, and led him into a corner.

"I've got you now," he said triumphantly. "My dear fellow, whatever made you snub poor Sir Allan like that?"

"Never mind. Come and make your adieux to Lady Meltoun, and let us go. I should not have come here."

"One moment first, Maddison," the artist said seriously. "Do you remember those lines of yours in which a man and woman stand on a bare hill by a clump of pines, and watch the misty moonlight cast weird shadows upon the hillside and over the quivering sea? 'A Farewell,' you called it, I think?"

"Yes; I remember them."

"Maddison, the woman to whom I wished to introduce you bids you to go to her by the memory of those lines."

There was very little change in his face. It only grew a little more rigid, and a strange light gleamed in his eyes. But the hand which he had laid on Carlyon's arm to draw him towards Lady Meltoun suddenly tightened like a band of iron, till the artist nearly cried out with pain.

"Let go my arm, for G.o.d's sake, man!" he said in a low tone, "and I will take you to her."

"I am ready," Mr. Maddison answered quietly. "Ah! I see where she is.

You need not come."

He crossed the room, absolutely heedless of more than one attempt to stop him. Mr. Carlyon watched him, and then with a sore heart bade his hostess farewell, and hurried away. He was generous enough to help another man to his happiness, but he could not stay and watch it.

CHAPTER XVII

BERNARD MADDISON AND HELEN THURWELL

And so it was in Lady Meltoun's drawing-room that they met again, after those few minutes in the pine plantation which had given color and pa.s.sion to her life, and which had formed an epoch in his. Neither were unmindful of the fact that if they were not exactly the centre of observation, they were still liable to it in some degree, and their greeting was as conventional as it well could have been. After all, she thought, why should it be otherwise? There had never a word of love pa.s.sed between them--only those few fateful moments of tragic intensity, when all words and thoughts had been merged in a deep reciprocal consciousness which nothing could have expressed.

He stood before her, holding her hand in his for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, and looking at her intently. It was a gaze from which she did not shrink, more critical than pa.s.sionate, and when he withdrew his eyes he looked away from her with a sigh.

"You have been living!" he said. "Tell me all about it!"

She moved her skirts to make room for him by her side.

"Sit down!" she said, "and I will try."