some seven years after the ambitious boy left coombe-acton, honest farmer abraham, just when the old-fashioned hawthorn hedges were in whitest bloom, sickened, turned his stolid face to the wall and died. gerald had been summoned, but arrived too late to see his father alive. perhaps it was as well it should be so, the farmer’s last moments were troubled ones and full of regret that watercress farm would no longer know a leigh. the nephew who had taken gerald’s place had turned out an utter failure, so much so that abraham leigh had roundly declared that he would be bothered with no more boys, and for the last few years had managed his business single-handed. however, although gerald’s upheaval of family traditions made the farmer’s deathbed unhappy, he showed that his son had not forfeited his love. all he possessed, some three thousand pounds, was left to him. mr. herbert took the lease of the farm off the young man’s hands, by and by the live and the dead stock were sold off, and watercress farm was waiting for another tenant.

the winding-up of the father’s affairs kept gerald in the neighborhood of some weeks, and when it became known that mr. herbert had insisted upon his taking up his quarters at the hall the simple coombe-acton folks were stricken with a great wonder. knowing nothing of what is called the “aristocracy of art,” their minds were much exercised by such an unheard of proceeding. what had “jerry” leigh being doing in the last seven years to merit such a distinction?

nothing his agricultural friends could have understood. after picking up the rudiments of his art in a well-known sculptor’s studio, young leigh had been sent to study in the schools at paris. mr. herbert told him that, so far as his art was concerned, paris was the workshop of the world,—rome its bazaar and showroom. so to paris the boy went. he studied hard and lived frugally. he won certain prizes and medals, and was now looking forward to the time when he must strike boldly for fame. even now he was not quite unknown. a couple of modest but very beautiful studies in low relief had appeared in last year’s exhibition, and, if overlooked by the majority, had attracted the notice of a few whose praise was well worth winning. he was quite satisfied with the results of his first attempt. in all things that concerned his art he was wise and patient. no sooner had he placed his foot on the lowest step of the ladder than he realized the amount of work to be done—the technical skill to be acquired before he could call himself a sculptor. even now, after seven years’ study and labor, he had selfdenial enough to resolve upon being a pupil for three years longer before he made his great effort to place himself by the side of contemporary sculptors. passionate and impulsive as was his true nature, he could follow and woo art with that calm persistency and method which seem to be the surest way of winning her smiles.

he is now a man—a singularly handsome man. if not so tall as his youth promised, he is well built and graceful. artist is stamped all over him. brow, eyes, even the slender, well-shaped hands, proclaim it. the general expression of his face is one of calm and[160] repose; yet an acute observer might assert that, when the moment came, that face might depict passions stronger than those which sway most men.

his dark hair and eyes, and something in the style of his dress, gave him a look not quite that of an englishman—a look that terribly vexed poor abraham leigh on those rare occasions when his erratic boy paid him a visit; but, nevertheless, it is a look not out of place on a young artist.

this is the kind of man gerald leigh has grown into; and, whilst his transformation has been in progress, miss eugenia herbert has become a woman.

although remembering every feature of the child, who seemed in some way associated with the day of his liberation, gerald had not again seen her until his father’s death called him back to england. each time he had visited coombe-acton he had, of course, reported progress to mr. herbert; but, shortly after the change in his life, mr. herbert by a great effort of self-denial, had sent his darling away to school, and at school she had always been when gerald called at the hall; but now, when he accepted mr. herbert’s hospitality, he found the fairy-like child grown, it seemed to him, into his ideal woman, and found, moreover, that there was a passion so intense that even the love of art must pale before it.

he made no attempt to resist it. he let it master him; overwhelm him; sweep him along. ere a week had gone by, not only by looks, but also in burning words, he had told eugenia he loved her. and how did he fare?

his very audacity and disregard of everything, save that he loved the girl, succeeded to a marvel. eugenia[161] had already met with many admirers, but not one like this. such passionate pleading, such fiery love, such vivid eloquence were strange and new to her. there was an originality, a freshness, a thoroughness in the love he offered her. his very unreasonableness affected her reason. all the wealth of his imagination, all the crystallizations of his poetical dreams, he threw into his passion. his ecstasy whirled the girl from her mental feet; his warmth created an answering warmth; his reckless pleading conquered. she forgot obstacles as his eloquence overleaped them; she forgot social distinction as his great dark eyes looked into hers, and at last she confessed she loved him.

then gerald leigh came down from the clouds and realized what he had done, and as soon as he touched the earth and became reasonable eugenia fancied she did not care for him quite so much.

his conscience smote him. not only must mr. herbert be reckoned with, but a terrible interval must elapse before he had fame and fortune to lay before eugenia. he could scarcely expect her to leave her luxurious home in order to live au quatrieme or au cinquieme in paris whilst he completed his studies. he grew sad and downcast as he thought of these things, and eugenia, who liked pleasant, bright, well-to-do people, felt less kindly disposed toward him and showed she did so.

this made him reckless again. he threw the future to the winds, recommenced his passionate wooing, recovered his lost ground and gained, perhaps, a little more.

but abraham leigh’s affairs were settled up, and gerald knew he must tear himself from acton hall and go back to work. he had lingered a few days to finish a bust of mr. herbert. this done he had no excuse for staying longer.

the summer twilight deepened into night. the sculptor and miss herbert stood upon the broad and gravelled terrace-walk that runs along the stately front of acton hall. they leaned upon the gray stone balustrade; the girl with musing eye was looking down on shadowy lawn and flower-bed underneath; the young man looked at her, and her alone. silence reigned long between them, but at last she spoke.

“you really go to-morrow?”

“tell me to stay, and i will stay,” he said, passionately, “but next week—next month—next year, the moment, when it does come, will be just as bitter.”

she did not urge him. she was silent. he drew very near to her.

“eugenia,” he whispered, “you love me?”

“i think so.” her eyes were still looking over the darkening garden. she spoke dreamily, and as one who is not quite certain.

“you think so! listen! before we part let me tell you what your love means to me. if, when first i asked for it you had scorned me, i could have left you unhappy, but still a man. now it means life or death to me. there is no middle course—no question of joy or misery—simply life or death! eugenia, look at me and say you love me!”

his dark eyes charmed and compelled her. “i love you! i love you?” she murmured. her words satisfied him; moreover, she let the hand he grasped remain in his, perhaps even returning the pressure of his own. so they stood for more than an hour, whilst gerald[163] talked of the future and the fame he meant to win—talked as one who has the fullest confidence in his own powers and directing genius.

presently they saw mr. herbert walking through the twilight towards them. gerald’s hand tightened on the girl’s so as to cause her positive pain.

“remember,” he whispered; “life or death! think of it while we are apart. your love means a man’s life or death!”

many a lover has said an equally extravagant thing, but eugenia herbert knew that his words were not those of poetical imagery, and as she re-entered the house she trembled at the passion she had aroused. what if time and opposition should work a change in her feelings? she tried to reassure herself by thinking that if she did not love him in the same blind, reckless way, at any rate she would never meet another man whom she could love as she loved gerald leigh.

the sculptor went back to paris—to his art and his dreams of love and fame. two years slipped by without any event of serious import happening to the persons about whom we are concerned. then came a great change.

mr. herbert died so suddenly that neither doctor nor lawyer could be summoned in time, either to aid him to live or to carry out his last wishes. his will gave eugenia two thousand pounds and an estate he owned in gloucestershire—everything else to his son. unfortunately, some six months before, he had sold the gloucestershire property, and, with culpable negligence, had not made a fresh will. therefore, the small money bequest was all that his daughter could claim. however, this seemed of little moment, as her[164] brother at once announced his intention of settling upon her the amount to which she was equitably entitled. he had given his solicitors instructions to prepare the deed.

james herbert, eugenia’s brother, was unmarried, and at present had no intention of settling down to the life of a country gentleman. six weeks after mr. herbert’s death the greater number of the servants were paid off, and acton hall was practically shut up. eugenia, after spending some weeks with friends in the north of england, came to london to live for an indefinite time with her mother’s sister, a mrs. cathcart.

since her father’s death gerald leigh had written to her several times—letters full of passionate love and penned as if the writer felt sure of her constancy and wish to keep her promise. he, too, was coming to london. had she wished it, he would at once have come to her side; but as it was he would take up his quarters in town about the same time eugenia arrived there.

the hour was at hand—the hour to which miss herbert had for two years looked forward with strangely mingled feelings—when her friends must be told that she intended to marry the young, and as yet unknown sculptor, gerald leigh, the son of her father’s late tenant farmer, abraham.

she loved him still. she felt sure of that much. if time and absence had somewhat weakened the spell he had thrown over her proud nature, she knew that unless the man was greatly changed the magic of his words and looks would sway her as irresistibly as before. she loved him, yet rebelled against her fate.

her father had died ignorant of what had passed between his daughter and the young artist. many a time eugenia had tried to bring herself to confess the truth to him. she now regretted she had not done so. mr. herbert’s approval or disapproval would have been at least a staff by which to guide her steps. he had suspected nothing. the few letters which passed between the lovers had been unnoticed. their love was as yet a secret known only to themselves.

she loved him, but why had he dared to make her love him? or, why was he not well-born and wealthy? could she find strength to face, for his sake, the scorn of her friends?

she must decide at once. she is sitting and thinking all these things in her own room at mrs. cathcart’s, and in front of her lies a letter in which gerald announces his intention of calling upon her to-morrow. she knows that if she receives him she will be bound to proclaim herself his affianced wife.

he called. she saw him. mrs. cathcart was out, so eugenia was alone when the servant announced mr. leigh. she started and turned pale. she trembled in every limb as he crossed the room to where she stood. he took her hand and looked into her face. he spoke, and his rich musical voice thrilled her.

“eugenia, is it life or death?”

she could not answer. she could not turn her eyes from his. she saw the intensity of their expression deepen; saw a fierce yearning look come into them, a look which startled her.

“is it life or death?” he repeated.

his love conquered. “gerald, it is life,” she said.

drunk with joy, he threw his arms around her and[166] kissed her until the blushes dyed her cheeks. he stayed with her as long as she would allow, but his delight was too delicious to permit him to say much about his plans for the future. when at last she made him leave her, he gave her the number of a studio at chelsea, which he had taken, and she promised to write and let him know when he might call again.

they parted. eugenia walked to the window, and for a long time looked out on the gay thoroughfare, now full of carriages going to and returning from the park. of course, she loved gerald dearly; that was now beyond a doubt. but what would she have to go through when the engagement was announced? what had she to look forward to as his wife? must love and worldly misery be synonymous?

the current of her thoughts was interrupted by the arrival of another visitor—her brother. james herbert was a tall young man, faultlessly dressed, and bearing a general look of what is termed high breeding. he bore a likeness to his father, but the likeness was but an outward one. by this time he was a cold cynical man of the world. he had not lived the best of lives, but, being no fool, had gained experience and caution. he was clever enough to study human nature with a view of turning his knowledge to account. eugenia had some pride of birth; her brother had, or affected, a great deal more. he was by no means unpopular; few men could make themselves more agreeable and fascinating than james herbert when it was worth his while to be so. in his way he was fond of his sister; certainly proud of her beauty; and she, who knew nothing of his true nature, thought him as perfect as a brother can be.

he kissed her, complimented her on her good looks, then sat down and made himself pleasant. she answered his remarks somewhat mechanically, wondering all the time what effect her news would have upon him. she hated things hanging over her head, and had made up her mind to tell him of her intentions, if not to-day the next time she met him.

“the lawyers have almost settled your little matter,” he said. “it’s lucky for you i made up my mind at once; things haven’t turned out so well as we expected.”

she thanked him—not effusively, as if he was doing no more than she had a right to expect. yet the thought flashed across her that before she took his bounty she was by honor compelled to make him acquainted with what she proposed doing.

“by-the-bye, eugenia,” said herbert, “you know ralph norgate?”

“yes. he called a day or two ago. i did not see him.”

“well, i expect he’ll soon call again. he has been forcing his friendship on me lately. in fact—i’d better tell you—his mind is made up—you are to be the future lady norgate. now you know what to look forward to.”

her face flushed. her troubles were beginning.

“but, james,” she stammered, “i was just going to tell you—i am already engaged.”

he raised his eyebrows. to express great surprise was against his creed, and the idea that eugenia was capable of disgracing herself did not enter his head.

“so much the worse for norgate,” he said. “who is the happy man?”

“you will be angry, very angry, i fear.” she spoke timidly. his manner told her she had good grounds for fear. his mouth hardened, but he still spoke politely and pleasantly.

“my dear girl, don’t discount my displeasure; tell me who it is?”

“his name is gerald leigh.”

“a pretty name, and one which sounds familiar to me. now, who is gerald leigh?”

“he is a sculptor.”

“ah! now i know. son of that excellent old tenant of my father’s. the genius he discovered on a dungheap. eugenia, are you quite mad?”

“he will be a famous man some day.”

herbert shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly irritating way.

“let him be as famous as he likes. what does it matter?”

“the proudest family may be proud of allying themselves to a great artist.”

herbert looked at his sister with a pitying but amused smile. “my poor girl, don’t be led astray by the temporary glorification of things artistic. when these fellows grow talked about we ask them to our houses and make much of them. it’s the fashion. but we don’t marry them. indeed, as they all begin in the lower ranks of life, like your friend, they are generally provided with wives of their own station, who stay at home and trouble no one.”

she winced under the sting of his scorn. he saw it, and knew he was pursuing the right treatment for her disease.

“now, this young leigh,” he continued. “what[169] will he be for years and years? a sort of superior stone-cutter. he will make what living he can by going about and doing busts of mayors and mayoresses, and other people of that class, who want their common features perpetuated. perhaps he might get a job on a tombstone for a change. bah! of course you have been jesting with me, eugenia. i shall tell norgate to call as soon as possible.”

“i shall marry gerald leigh,” said eugenia, sullenly. all the same the busts and tombstones weighed heavily upon her.

“that,” said her brother, rising, and still speaking with a smile, “i am not the least afraid of, although you are of age and mistress of two thousand pounds. you are not cut out to ornament an attic. i need not say i must countermand that settlement. it must wait until you marry norgate or some other suitable man.”

he kissed her and walked carelessly away. to all appearance the matter did not cause him a moment’s anxiety. he was a clever man, and flattered himself he knew how to treat eugenia; human nature should be assailed at its weakest points.

his carelessness was, of course, assumed; for, meeting mrs. cathcart as she drove home, eugenia’s news was sufficiently disturbing to make him stop the carriage, seat himself beside his aunt, and beg her to take another turn in the park, during which he told her what had transpired.

they were fitting coadjutors. mrs. cathcart was delighted to hear of sir ralph’s overtures, and was shocked to find that eugenia was entangled in some low attachment. she quite agreed that the girl must[170] be led, not driven; must be laughed, not talked, out of her folly. “girls nearly always make fools of themselves once in their lives,” said mr. cathcart, cynically.

“they do,” said james herbert, who knew something about the sex. “all the same, eugenia shall not. find out all about the fellow, where he lives, and all the rest of it. she doesn’t know i’ve told you about this. keep a sharp lookout for any letters.”

so the next day, when eugenia and her aunt were together, the latter, a skilled domestic diplomatist, commenced operations by regretting that mr. herbert, although so fond of statuary, had never employed a sculptor to make his own bust. mrs. cathcart spoke so naturally that eugenia fell into the trap, and informed her that mr. herbert’s likeness had been taken in clay two years ago by a young sculptor then staying at acton hall. it had been done for pleasure, not profit, but her father had always intended to order a copy in marble. mrs. cathcart was delighted. did eugenia know where the young man could be found?

eugenia did know. she told her with a tinge of color on her cheeks, and took advantage of the opportunity, and perhaps soothed her spirit somewhat by expatiating on what a great man her lover was to become. mrs. cathcart, in return, spoke of geniuses as struggling, poverty stricken persons, to befriend whom was the one great wish of her life. it was indeed pleasant for miss herbert to hear her aunt speak of her lover as she might of a hard-working seamstress or deserving laundress. she had not yet written to gerald. she must find strength to throw[171] off her brother’s scorn and the busts and tombstones before she again met her lover.

sir ralph norgate called that morning. he was a man of about forty. not ill-looking, but with the unmistakable appearance of one who had led a hard life. he was rich, and of fine old family. it was clear to mrs. cathcart that he meant business. eugenia had met him several times last year, and it was no news to her that he was her ardent admirer. she was very cold towards him to-day, but mrs. cathcart did not chide her. she, clever woman, knew that men like norgate value a prize at what it costs them to win it. so the baronet came, stayed his appointed time, then went away, presumably in fair train to a declaration by and by.