by dr. glibly’s advice ophelia strong had removed to a fashionable seaside town on the southern coast, so that after the keen, brisk air of callydon she might become more acclimatized for the warmer temper of the saltire woods. the change, moreover, had been rendered expedient by other considerations. major maltravers had himself advised it, and, as he could generally furbish up sufficient facile logic to uphold his opinions, ophelia had come to have great faith in him. the soldier had been playing a most romantic and problematic part, a part well calculated to render unstable the equilibrium of any ordinary woman’s brain. as for miss mabel saker, she accompanied the invalid with creditable devotion, perhaps to found new kingdoms of sentiment on the southern shores. flirtation with the brunette was an amiable habit, a habit that she had the sense to preserve from dissipation.

st. aylmers claimed the usual features of seaside health resorts. it possessed a pier, a handsome promenade, winter-gardens, a concert-hall, a string-band, hotels, hydros, and expensive lodging-houses. the parade crescented the sea with a scroll-work of many colors. aloes set in large, green tubs punctuated the pavement. here and there rose an oasis of flowers ringed round by vivid circles of grass and ?sthetically trimmed hedges. bathing-machines were trundled down the beach by superlatively obese horses, the very obesity of the animals enlisting the sympathies of the old ladies with the virtuous and kind-hearted proprietor. bath-chairs idled from east to west, their inmates snuffing the sea breeze and watching the false green gleam in the eyes of the feminine sea. st. aylmers boasted a phenomenal share of sunshine, and was beloved of self-satisfied carriage-folk, whose aristocratic noses were never incensed by the perfumes of cockle booths and perspiring east-end trippers. st. aylmers was eminently refined. the pine-woods that rose like a coronet on the hills to the north appeared like a throng of obsequious officials keeping the doorway of culture. everything was clean and brilliant about the town, smart, precise, and opulent.

ophelia had taken up her abode at the queen’s hotel, on the sea front. the building was elaborately stuccoed, its fa?ade radiant with gold-lettering, flowers in window-boxes, and sun-blinds white and red. the garden fronting the hotel was as sprucely kept as the meagre thatch on a military dandy’s poll. the pavements were tiled, purple and green and white. there was a flattering medallion of the reigning monarch over the handsome porch.

on a particular may morning miss saker and the invalid had hired one of the green-and-white bathing-machines and were revelling in the sea. a cloudless sky burned azure overhead and every wavelet was scalloped green and gold. the sands glistened like burnished brass. the moist swish of the ripples along the strand rose like a slumber-song, soothing the senses of numberless decrepit old gentlemen who had had their chairs set in the sun above the ladies’ bathing enclosure. the weather was benign enough even to soothe the irascible propensities of patriarchs afflicted with gout.

ophelia strong was a fine swimmer. attired in a blue french bathing-dress, with a blue-and-white cap coffing her amber hair, she seemed a veritable venus, sapphire, pearl, and ruby, gemming the sea. taking the more fragile mabel under her escort, she swam to a large boat anchored off the shore as a haven for those who preferred an ambitious swim. they climbed up the brass-tipped ladder into the boat, and sat in the sunshine as in a bath of gold, watching st. aylmers stretching east and west beneath its coronet of pines.

miss saker tucked a brown curl under her red bathing-cap and glanced mischievously at her companion.

“i bet he will,” she remarked.

“will what?”

“come to-day.”

“who?”

“don’t pretend such innocence.”

the boat swayed with them lazily over the almost imperceptible swell. miss saker, as she scanned the parade with its garden of many-colored parasols, broke suddenly into exclamatory delight.

“i said so,” she laughed.

“where?”

“oh, my prophetic soul, i believe i can see the rogues over there by the big electric standard perched on the railings.”

ophelia reconnoitred the parade in turn.

“i believe you are right,” she said.

ophelia slipped over the gunwale and dropped gently into the tide. the water bubbled over her white shoulders, the sun shone in her hair. mabel saker followed down the steps. they swam shoreward together, laughing and chatting as the water rippled at their lips. nor did the lessening distance dissolve the enchantment conjured up by the two exquisites upon the parade. the lifting of a hat, the wave of a hand, suggested a quick and mutual vigilance in the recognition.

while the two women ascended from the foam to the transfiguration of the toilet, maltravers and his companion sat in the shadow of a groin, beguiling the time with cigarettes and confidential small-talk. the confessions of the average man would hardly edify the ear of the woman who honors him as lord. there is but little chivalry in smoking-rooms and before theatrical bars. ribaldry generally passes for humor and nastiness for knowledge of the world. the philosophy of commercial travellers and army subalterns smacks forcibly of the flesh.

“i wonder how long the darlings will be lacing up their stays?” said the florid youth, who recognized in maltravers a superior spirit, a sage erudite in the epicurism of life.

“can’t tell,” said the elder.

the greetings were flippant, glib, leavened with smart innuendos and facile flattery. two old gentlemen in bath-chairs by the promenade rail exchanged epigrams and recalled the romantic passages of their own youth. it was not long before the four separated, miss saker and the florid youth drifting towards the band-stand, while maltravers and ophelia wandered away along the beach.

free of the promenade, ophelia loosened her hair upon her shoulders, to dry in the sun. like a gilded fleece it swept over her neck, bosom, and shoulders, fragrant with the salt breath of the sea. her eyes were peculiarly brilliant and the sun had set a sunburned splendor on her cheeks. her neck, bare above the low-cut collar of her blouse, had been touched with bronze since her short sojourn by the sea. her sky-blue dress, fitting loosely about her fine figure, rippled with voluptuous folds. she seemed to walk the sands like some proud cardiflamma, flashing her scarlet torch in the eyes of desire.

as they drew apart from the populous town the flippant temper of their meeting vanished more and more. there was silence about them save for the sound of the sea. a passionate gravity, a more potent power, seemed to weigh upon their hearts. there was a new significance in life for them. they were alone together with the future and their own thoughts.

“i have missed you,” said the woman, as they drew from the town and saw the blue crescent of a bay glimmer before them beneath white cliffs.

“and i, too,” said the man, with a species of melancholy self-suppression; “only fourteen days since you left callydon. i never knew life could be so confoundedly dull.”

their eyes met, flashed in a smile, and fell away again as though desirous of husbanding the impression.

“you are looking thin,” suggested the woman.

“nonsense!”

“don’t contradict me.”

“i have been sleeping badly,” said the soldier; “and, upon my soul, i have half-starved myself.”

“we must take care of you here.”

he laughed a deep quaver of sentiment.

“that hair of yours would flash heaven into any man’s heart,” he said.

they walked on a burnished stretch of sand, for the tide was low and the waves mere ripples. the sea was like a garment of many colors, ribbed with iridescent hues from cloud and sky. the cliffs rose like walls of ivory fringed with emerald silk, and the pines on the hills were webbed with a purple mist.

“italian weather,” said the soldier, turning down the brim of his hat; “it is not often we get such a day in this damned climate. you know italy?”

ophelia’s mouth hardened.

“italy!”

“a land to live in.”

“that depends on one’s companion.”

“ah! i remember.”

“i spent my honeymoon there—a never-to-be-forgotten affair.”

“was the bibliomaniac dull?”

“a sort of ‘wandering jew’ in trousers.”

“let him evaporate,” said the soldier, with a laugh; “upon my soul, you are looking in splendid health.”

“to-day—perhaps,” she answered, with a reawakened smile.

they had left the town far behind by now, and the beach stretched solitary before them and utterly silent save for the moist sound of the sea. the ripples spent themselves in a glittering film of silver at their feet. the firm, smooth sand showed hardly any impress as they passed. it seemed difficult to believe that the sea was not ever thus, but that roaring waters trampled the shore and made the shingles shriek under lowering skies.

“i shall not forget my months at callydon,” said the man, with deepening significance.

“is there any need?” she answered.

“god knows! i have your picture here,” and he laid his big, brown hand over his heart.

gabriel’s wife smiled with a suggestive intelligence.

“callydon is not a lost paradise,” she said, “nor are we adam and eve. do you remember the various things you said to me that day when we were playing golf? they seem prophetic as i recall them now. well, it will save us trouble.”

he glanced suddenly in her face with a keen, desirous look.

“what is it?”

“i have news for you.”

“no—not that.”

“come, sit down, and you shall see.”

there were bowlders scattered under the cliffs. the two climbed the beach and chose a species of stone circle where they were sheltered from the sun. ophelia leaned back against one of the stones, with maltravers lying at her feet.

“read that,” she said, taking a crumpled letter from her pocket and giving it into his hand; “it was forwarded from callydon.”

the soldier sat up, squatted with his knees under his chin, and ran his eyes rapidly over the crumpled sheet. there was a certain rapacious and wolfish look upon his face. his mustaches twitched above his big, clean-shaven jaw; his brown hands trembled. at the end thereof he whistled softly through his teeth and stared out over the sea.

“by jove,” he said, “what a coincidence!”

“strange, only three weeks ago.”

“yes, i prophesied this.”

“are you glad?”

he turned suddenly and looked at her, and his eyes glistened. gabriel’s wife reached for the letter. their fingers met, and the man’s closed on hers; her hand was moist and warm, with the letter crumpled betwixt their palms.

“well!” she said.

they stared at each other a long while in silence, like those whose thoughts kindle and beacon from their eyes. the woman’s color deepened. her bosom moved markedly; her white teeth showed between her lips.

“jim!”

he unbuttoned her sleeve, bared her shapely forearm, and pressed his lips to it like one who sucks poison from a wound. she laughed softly, a sound that seemed to mimic the noise of the waves. perhaps for one moment she remembered gabriel, her husband, and that golden june evening in the mallan meadows. the vision was transitory and powerless, a mere breath from the frozen past. near her was the soldier’s bronzed, handsome face, with its hawk-like pride and the strong passion in its eyes.

“well!” she said, at length.

“by god, phyl, i can’t help it; don’t be hard on me; you make me mad.”

“bide so,” she said, with a little pleasurable sucking in of her breath.

“is it to be?”

“need you ask that?”

he pressed her bare arm against his cheek, stretched himself at full length, and laid his head in her lap as she leaned against the stone. gabriel’s wife bent over him and watched her own reflection in his eyes. she closed his lids with her finger-tips and let her hand rest on his forehead.

“you look tired, jim.”

“thinking hard, that is all.”

“what will you do?” she asked him, presently.

“carry this through to the death,” he said, with a tightening of the jaw.

she looked over the face in her lap and away towards the sea, where gulls were sweeping like pure spirits over the blue. the transcendent egotism of the moment had made them both blind to the world that was beyond the mere ken of their senses. they were both happy in a desperate, headlong fashion. ophelia still had mrs. marjoy’s letter crumpled in one hand.

“jim, you are a man,” she said, “and no weakling. i am glad of that, for i will trust all to you. yes, it must be so; we cannot hesitate.”

he opened his eyes and looked up at her with an expression of strenuous eagerness.

“i shall go to town to-night,” he said.

“so soon!”

“well—”

“to-morrow.”

“let it be to-morrow.”

“and then?”

“i shall employ agents, have them watched, collect evidence—it is very simple.”

“you have money?”

“i never lacked for that,” he said.

she brought her face near to his, her hair shrouding him in gold. the sun shimmered through upon them both. her eyes commanded him, and he kissed her.

“i will go to-morrow,” he said.

“for life or death, jim.”

“phyl, you believe in me?”

“what a question, now!”

he held her hands, and spoke slowly, like a man taking a vow.

“the sin is not all ours,” he said, “and we cannot help it; as for the man, he is mere dust. if he had loved you, it would have been different. as it is, i will surrender to none, man or devil.”