CHAPTER 4.

            IN answer to the letter wherein he briefly informed Margaret of the favourable result of his mission, and assured her that he was, as ever, at her disposal for any service he could render her, Noel received the following reply: ‑

            ‘You know me too well, dear friend, to think me ungrateful, however much I may appear to be so. Had I been aware of all, I should have done my best to prevent your going again to Mexico. I do not know what my aunt and cousin must have thought of me. It seemed to me that all physical sensation was deadened by the mental. Even now, the ceaseless ache has not left me. I live only for my darlings. Thank God, they thrive in unconsciousness. To all else I am dead. Grateful for all your unselfish devotion, I wish only to hear that you have opened your heart to the future. Cherish me as a memory, if you will, but let it be a memory as of the dead. For you there may be much sunshine yet, if you will let it be so. For me, it will be my greatest happiness to know that my shadow no longer rests as a dark cloud upon you. When you have won the happiness which you deserve, and I wish you, it will be my greatest pleasure to see you and her. That, I think, would fill the principal want of my life. I should feel, then, that I had a brother and sister indeed.’

            The summer passed wearily with Noel. He saw little of Sophia Bevan, for she was always in society, and society, in his existing mood, was distasteful to him. Until the heat and dust of August made him pine for the green country, he remained in town, occupied principally in trying to shape his book to his liking, and utterly failing therein. His mind was neither in the creative nor in the appreciative stage. He made the round of

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the theatres, looking for the attempts of others to render life and truth into visible form, but was only disgusted by the unreality or vulgarity he found. Then he betook himself to his Devonshire home. There he existed awhile in undisturbed listlessness, for the Bevans had gone to divide the autumn between Ryde and Brighton.

            Sophia was far from acquiescing quietly in these successive defections of the only two persons in the world for whom she really cared. But for once she owned her penetration at fault, and abstained from unsheathing the ready weapon of her indignation. She even allowed herself to be in some measure guided by Lady Bevan, who, though far from supposing herself to be the possessor of all wisdom and knowledge in matters affecting her friends, successfully represented to her that there are some complications which time only can unravel, and wounds which time only can heal; and so persuaded her to be content with letting her friends know that she was at their service whenever they might require her aid.

            Noel did not again write to Margaret after receiving the letter last given. But early in December, when he became conscious that the summer was over, the harvest past, the skies black with hurrying storms, the trees around his dwelling swept of their leaves, and he himself neither saved nor saving by the power of the one love of his life; when, too, he heard that his presence was wanted to meet the gay party about to gather at Linnwood, a longing beyond control came over him, and he suddenly quitted his home, quitted England, and crossed the continent with all speed.

            His one thought was, ‑

            ‘Margaret, Margaret, I must see you, even though we meet not, nor speak.’

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