the james germains paid a visit to hill-street in june. it was most unfortunate that it was so wet, but the time was otherwise convenient, since mary was away on a visit to her people. this was how mrs. james put it—she was never remarkable for tact. nor did she care to be. surely, she would say, openness is best. mary once departed, then, mrs. james was installed the very next day. the rector followed her.

from the first he did not like his brother’s looks. john, he thought, was ailing—ailing and ageing. he showed an unwholesome white in the cheeks, a flabby quality in the flesh, poor appetite, low spirits. vitality was low; he was feeble. he ate hardly anything, and betrayed a tendency to fall asleep in pauses of the conversation. yet he talked, in flashes, during dinner of his projects, with something of the old hopefulness. he had lately been asking a series of questions, agricultural questions, “somewhat carefully framed”; he had pressed the minister in charge of such matter. he was “not without hope” that some good might result. then a deputation of tenant-farmers had been talked of; he “should not be unwilling” to introduce that. it was very characteristic of him to talk negatively; the rector used to trace it to a scots ancestress—a forbes of lochgour. but he owned to being weary—alas, that a legislator should admit that in june! and said that he looked forward to the recess “like any schoolboy.” mrs. james, who loved “plans,” asked him his. he had none, it seemed. “time has pressed upon us both of late; my work and her dissipations! but i must talk it over with mary so soon as she returns. her wishes must carry weight with me. i should delight in showing her switzerland—or norway——”

“you would not, perhaps, delight in the thousands of people doing the same thing?” here was mrs. james, with her challenging note. the rector marked with concern that john let it go.

she inquired whether he would resume his visits to misperton brand. “the cantacutes often speak of you,” she told him, and then remembered that of course he saw the cantacutes here in town. he bowed his head.

“then you know, of course, that tristram’s affair—if it ever was an affair—with hertha is quite at an end?”

no—mr. germain had not known that. “i see very little of tristram,” he told her, and resumed the question of holiday-making.

mary had great leanings to cornwall. she had been attracted to it upon her first visit, had often talked of it, and lately had seemed to prefer it to switzerland. she would like to be there later in the year; spoke of november as a good month. “i cannot say that it agrees with me,” he added. “a languid, relaxing air—and in november! to my mind a visit to the land’s end in november would be the act of a suicide. but mary is young and strong; and her wishes are naturally mine—and her pleasures also . . . her pleasures also.” if he sighed he was not aware of it. a silence fell upon the table, which became painful to two of the three, though not to be broken. the rector plunged back into politics. “they tell me at the clubs that lord craye leaves india. . . .” but it would not do. mrs. james had the good taste to rise. the carriage was ordered at 10 to take her to a party.

when she had gone the brothers sat without speaking for some minutes. the rector drank his claret; john germain was in a brooding stare. the younger broke the silence.

“dear old boy, i wish that we could have stopped up a few more days—but the diocesan inspector can’t be put off. i tried him with my silkiest—he’s inexorable—adamant. and then there’s constantia, with a bazaar on her conscience. a bazaar—in july!”

john germain did not lift his head from the hand that propped it. “my dear fellow, i understand you perfectly. we all have our duties. we must all face them . . . whatever it cost . . . whatever it cost us.”

the rector looked keenly at him. “you are not yourself, john—that’s as clear as day. i do wish that mary had not left you. it was not like her. she should have known—” his goaded brother sat up sharply—like one who lifts his gory head from the press of battle, descrying fresh foes.

“mary wished to go. i could not deny her. indeed, i wished it also. her parents are alone, and she is useful to them. i believe, nay, i am sure that she is happy there.”

“your belief,” said the rector, “is as pious as the fact, and as rare. the fashion of the day is for children to tolerate their parents. the cry is, ‘you brought us into the world, monsieur et dame; yes, and thank you for nothing!’ thank god, mary hasn’t caught that trick. but i do think that, if she is needed here, a hint from you——”

“but i will give her no such hints,” germain said fiercely. “i am not so self-engrossed. i am inured to a solitary life, and she is not. i remember her youth, i remember her activity.”

“one would have thought that london in june—” the rector began, and was checked at once. germain said shortly that the activity excited by london in june was not wholesome. “she is better there than here,” he added, and snapped his lips together.

james germain, having raised his eyebrows at this oracle, immediately lowered them again, and his eyes with them. after a pause he spoke more intimately, feeling his way along a dark, surmised passage.

“i believe you to mean that all this whirl is very new to her, and over-exciting. must you not be patient, must you not lead? accustom her to it by degrees? you know what i think of mary, and that i have followed her steps with interest. you have told me how bravely she held her own in the country; and you aren’t likely to forget that she had two years in which to do it. you speak of our duties—meaning, i take it, your own among others? well, where do these lie, these duties? where we find ourselves, or where we may choose to put ourselves? you may tell me that public life is, in a sense, your sphere—and so it is, i grant you. but when you entered mary’s little sphere—as you did, something of the suddenest—had you not then to inquire whether that could be made elastic enough to include your own? surely you had. this parliamentary career of yours, now. nobody is more naturally at westminster than yourself: that’s of course. i wish there were more like you, men of sober judgment, weighted with their private responsibilities. upon my conscience, parliament seems a place for buccaneering now-a-days—a high sea. i rejoiced, i say, when you stood up. but whether you could fairly ask a girl of mary’s training to take over such work with you—by your side—” here john germain held up his hand.

“one moment. you are right, james. i could not. i acted for the best, so far as i could see my way. i listened to my hopes. it was important that i should do something to interest her in—in our life together. there were reasons, serious reasons, into which i cannot now enter. her life at southover. . . . she was not happy, she was not contented. she could not be.”

james had now nothing to say. he frowned, to conceal his pain. john spoke on slowly, as if labouring both words and breath.

“i have failed her—i have failed her. and since that—i have held out my hands, tried to speak. i am dumb before her youth and eager life. i love her dearly, i need her—but she cannot know it, will never know it. experience is what she cries for, not of the mouth, but of the heart and blood. i have no blood to give her, and my heart is in a cage.” he spoke calmly, with the icy breath of despair upon his mouth; but it was to be seen that his thin frame trembled. . . . “a barrier grew up between us, not made with hands. fate made her speak when i was at my lowest; it called me to listen when she was made strong by need. since then she has respected me through fear; loved me by duty. i should have charmed her fears away, made love her food. alas! you know that i have failed—from the very first.”

what could the other say? what could he do but bow his head?

“. . . i have endeavoured not to be selfish in this serious matter. it would have been easy for me to have kept her in the country; a plausible thing—it was implied when i took her. but i was not able to do that. the idea of the sacrifice of one so salient and strong, so well-disposed, with so much charm, was abhorrent to me. deliberately, knowing full well what risks i ran, i chose for this parliamentary work; and now i have, under my eyes, the result which i feared—the snares are all about her; she cannot walk without danger. and i must watch, and be dumb.”

he sat bitterly silent for a while. then his eyes flamed, and he struck the table with his closed hand.

“nobody shall take her from me. there is a point beyond which i cannot go. she is mine in all duty and conscience. i am vowed to protect her, and i will do it—both now and hereafter. where she is now she is safe from the dastardly designs which beset her here. her father will protect her, her father’s house. when she returns, i must take some steps—i must consider my plans—i have time enough. on this i am utterly resolved, that i will rescue her soul from destruction . . . my darling from the lions . . . from the power of the dog.”

his voice broke; he could say no more; but his face was white and stern. james germain had no help for him.