thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself,” is an excellent maxim. its only fault is its capacity of a too wide extension. if a saying clause had been added with reference to its non-application to one’s neighbour’s business, it would have been perfect. but, perhaps, after all, in its faultiness lies its excellence, for counsels of perfection are of no great use to mankind, which, in its ethical systems, loves disguised loopholes for original sin.

however little the inmates of the pension boccard may have observed the maxim itself, they obeyed its extension to a nicety. not only because they were women. sometimes communities of men have been known to gossip about each other’s affairs. it is but human to speculate upon events around us, and speculation, anticipating paine’s fear, was rife at the pension boccard.

in the first place, the dramatic ending of poor miss bunter’s romance kept wits and tongues exercised for days. and secondly, certain facts had become common property which pointed to interesting relations between mrs. stapleton and paine chetwynd. the chief of these facts was the early morning interview. the summer waiter reported it to the cook, who informed madame boccard, who mentioned it in confidence to madame popea, who in her satirical way described it to fraulein klinkhardt. from the latter it passed to frau schultz, who barbed it carefully in accordance with her own spite against katherine, and sent it round on its travels again. in this form it reached felicia.

the girl found herself just in the humour of bitterness to accept it. after the heartless, systematic deception that had been practised on miss bunter for fifteen years, it seemed possible to credit humanity with anything. not that she felt any resentment against raine chetwynd on her own score. she was bound to confess to herself, with tears of self-scorn, that he had never treated her with anything but the most brotherly frankness and courtesy. but in her dislike of katherine, she certainly credited him with a commonplace amour, and thereby set him down lower in her estimation. then her pride came, speciously to her rescue, but really, after the way of pride in women’s hearts, to embitter the struggle that was taking place within her. one bright, pure feeling, however, rose above the turmoil—an intense pity for the poor frail creature out of whom had been crushed the hope of life. to have stood by as witness and comforter during that agony of despair had been one of those lurid experiences that set in motion the springs of infinitely reaching sympathies.

when old mr. chetwynd proposed the trip to lucerne she sprang at it eagerly. it would be a relief to leave the pension and its associations. for the whole of the day she busied herself feverishly with preparations. it was a keen disappointment when the old man fell ill and the trip had to be indefinitely postponed. she longed passionately for october, when she was to join her uncle and aunt in bermuda. meanwhile she copied out manuscript assiduously, nursed the old man as far as he would allow her, and devoted the rest of her time to whatever gaieties were afoot in the pension.

katherine lived in a fool’s paradise after raine had gone, for a couple of days. his kiss was on her lips, the pressure of his arms lingered round her, the vibrating words rang in her ear. if unbidden thoughts came, she put them aside with a passionately rebellious will. the long morning passed like a dream. the day and evening in an intoxicated sense of happiness. in the night she slept and waked, alternately, heedless of the hours. she had won his love. it had been given to her in full, overflowing measure. it flooded her presence with sunlight. she surrendered herself to the delicious joy that it was to feel, instead of to think.

on the evening of the second day, however, came raine’s letter. she sat by her window, reading it with a beating heart. at times the words swam before her. until then she had not realized the wholeness, the simple nobility of his love. to her it was more than a love-letter. it was the revelation of a strong, high soul that was given her, to companion and illuminate the rest of her days upon earth. she, who in her self-abasement before him, felt unworthy to kiss the hem of his raiment, saw herself revered, worshipped, filling a holy of holies in his heart. she was to be his wife.

she read the letter through twice. then a great fear chilled her. its premonitions had come that evening on the lake, just before the thunder broke, and through all her after-intoxication it had loomed threateningly. only her will had staved it off. now it held her in its grip.

his wife. the words stared her in the face, repeated over and over again with every surrounding of passion, tenderness, and devotion. she grew cold. a lump rose in her throat. she walked across the room, poured herself out a glass of water, and sat down again. the dream, the illusion, the joy, all was over. a great pain was in her eyes as she gazed sightlessly straight in front of her.

as she gazed, a temptation crept insidiously into her heart, relaxed and soothed for a moment her tense nerves. why should she tell him that which she knew his fine nature would never ask? all her future to all eternity was his. what mattered the past?

her eyes fell upon his letter on her lap, caught a few chance phrases. then a shudder passed through her like a wave of self-contempt and revulsion, and, leaning forward, she buried her face in her hands and cried.

he was too noble to be deceived—to be entrapped as by a common adventuress. the thought scorched her. silence would be metal too base to repay the pure gold of his love. a million times sooner speak and lose him than keep him with a lie. all that was pure and true and womanly in her revolted at the temptation.

for a long time she remained with bowed head, her thoughts whirling round the means whereby she was to deal the death-blow at her happiness. the moments passed quickly, and the shadows gathered as the afternoon began to melt into evening. a message from mme. boccard, asking her whether she was coming down to dinner, was the first thing that made her conscious of the flight of time. she sent down word that she was poorly. a plate of soup brought up to her would be all that she required. then she fell back into her despairing thoughts. the cry wrung from the soul of denise hummed in her ears until it became a meaningless burthen. since that night in january when she had seen the play with raine, she had morbidly applied that cry to herself—“je suis de celles qrion aime, mais au’on n’epouse pas.”

a faint ray of hope shot across the darkness. he had told her his own story. to him it was a sacred memory. the girl that he had loved, the mother of his child, was in his eyes the purest of women. would not that mitigate the judgment he would have to pass on her? she clung to the hope revealed, as she lost grip of herself. he would not despise her. he would still love her. she would be to him what that other had been. her thoughts for a while grew hysterical.

the effort she was forced to make when the servant entered with her meal, and the physical strength given her by the warm soup, restored calm and order in her mind. she read raine’s letter through once more. it inspired her with sad, despairing courage. she became for the time the katherine she had been so long, hopeless, resigned, fatalistic. before she crept broken and exhausted into bed, she had written him a long calm letter telling him all. she did not spare herself, hiding behind sophistries, neither did she blacken herself like a remorseful magdalen. she wrote it with her heart’s blood, at the dictates of her highest self. only once perhaps in a lifetime is the power given to human beings to lay thus bare their souls as they appear before the eyes of the high gods. it was a higher katherine than she wot of, that had written that letter.

but in the morning, the human woman yearning dumbly for happiness beheld it, addressed, stamped, ready for post, and her heart was ice within her. she stood for a moment holding it in her hand, irresolute whether to break the seal and read it over again. perhaps, she weakly thought, something in it might be better expressed. her finger mechanically sought the flap corner of the envelope, and she tore it slowly. then she went back to bed with the letter. nothing could be altered. she would readdress it and despatch it that day.

whilst dressing she paused at her reflection in the glass, with a feminine catch at the heart. she looked pale, old, faded, she thought; faint lines were around the corners of her eyes; her features seemed pinched. she shivered slightly—hurried foolishly over her hair, so that she could be spared the sight of her face as soon as possible.

“after all,” she said to herself, bitterly, “what does it matter? when that letter has gone, who in the world will care whether you look old or young?”

life seemed to end for her from the moment the letter would fall from her hands into the letter-box. she kept it by her all day, unable to cut herself adrift. the small extra effort required to address a fresh envelope just raised the task above her strength. once during the day she flung herself on the bed in a fit of sobbing. she could not send it. it would spoil his trip. she would wait till he returned, till she had seen his eye light up once more as he looked at her, and heard, for one last time, the throb in his voice that she was never to hear again. just one more hour of happiness. then she would give him the letter, stay by him as he read it, as a penance for her present pusillanimity. feeling miserably guilty, yet glad of the respite, she wrote him the second letter that he had received. the one that she was to have sent she carried about with her in her pocket, until the outside grew soiled and dogs-eared.

they were not happy days. but she moved about the pension outwardly calm and serene, to all appearances her own self. the feeling of self-reproach for her cowardice wore off. she resigned herself to her lot. one sight of his face—and then the end of all things. she knew, with the knowledge of herself given by years of solitude and self-repression, that she would not faite? in her second resolution.

so centred, however, were her thoughts in the tragic side of her relations with raine that she gave no heed to the possibility of gossip. none reached her ears. her long sustained attitude of reserve, a superiority of personality, a certain dignity of manner and conduct, had won for her the respect, if not the love, of the pension. even erau schultz, who hated her, found it impossible to utter the spiteful innuendo that trembled on her lips. but mme. popea, who was the chartered libertine of the pension, by reason of her good-nature and unblushing liberty of speech, summoned up courage one day to tread upon the ice.

“mon dieu,” she said, as if by way of invoking the deity’s aid in her venture, “it is getting dull again. i long to see mr. chetwynd back.

“he makes himself missed,” replied katherine calmly, continuing her sewing.

mme. popea had come into her room with the ostensible purpose of borrowing a stiletto. it was one of her ways to stock her work-basket with loans.

“if the dear professor grows worse, he will return soon, i suppose. they are like women to each other, those two—good ones, in the vie de famille of novels. i hear the professor is much worse to-day.”

“who told you?”

“miss graves. she is nursing him. what a charming girl! her devotion to him is touching. it would be quite a romance if she married monsieur raine. he is so handsome.”

katherine regarded the plump, irresponsible lady with placid gravity.

“you seem to take a romantic interest in them, madame popea.”

“mon dieu, yes. anything that concerns love is interesting, especially the idyllic. but you, madame, would you be surprised if on his return they were betrothed?”

“il ne faut jamais s'étonner de rien,” quoted katherine, smiling imperturbably.

“i once thought he had a tendresse for madame,” ventured mme. popea archly.

“oh, madame popea,” laughed katherine. “you know what men are—and we women ought never to tell each other our impressions. if i told you the flattering remarks i have heard about you this last fortnight, your head would be turned.”

“ah, who has spoken of me?”

katherine rose, took out a bonnet from a drawer and somewhat ostentatiously unrolled a veil, while she returned a laughing answer.

“i am too old not to have learned discretion. it is my one vice.”

and mme. popea, seeing that katherine was not to be surprised into any admission, lingered a moment idly, and then took her departure. katherine, who read through mme. popea, smiled to herself somewhat sadly. but her visitor’s announcement regarding the old professor gave her subject for reflection. if his father grew worse, raine would have to return at once. for a moment she half wished he would delay his coming. her heart throbbed painfully in anticipation of what lay before her.

the announcement was true. the old man had taken a severe chill. the doctor had just spoken rather alarmingly to felicia. she determined that raine should be summoned.

“you must let me send a telegram to chamonix,” she said, standing by the bedside, while the old man drank his tisane. “it would cheer you to see him, wouldn’t it?”

the old man shook his head.

“not yet.”

“why?”

“it would be such a pity. he is enjoying himself.”

“i should think he would not be sorry to come back,” said felicia.

an unwonted sub-acidity in her tone surprised him. he paused, with the cup at his lips, his eyes luminous. her glance fell beneath his, and she coloured.

“i don’t think he went away to enjoy himself,” she said, giving expression to vague conjectures that had been taking shape in her mind the last few days. “besides, his friends have left him in the lurch—not their fault—unhappily—but still he is alone. he would be glad to come back if you sent for him.”

the old man was perplexed. he was also weakened by his attack of cold.

“do you think that i sent him away, felicia?” he asked.

felicia was feminine enough to perceive his admission. she was sure of her guess now. katherine was at the bottom of the matter. the proceedings, however, struck her as particularly futile. as they were, actually, on the real grounds. she took the empty cup from his hands, smoothed his pillow deftly, and as he laid his head back, she bent over him and whispered,—“he went away to please you—and he will return to please you. let me telegraph to him.”

“but you—my dear child—how could you bear—?”

“i?” asked felicia in surprise. “what have i to do with it?”

“oh, mr. chetwynd!” she added after a moment’s silence. “you must not remember any foolish things i told you once—i think i must have been a child then. i am ashamed of them now. i have grown older,”—she struggled bravely—“and i have got over those silly feelings. i would not wish to be anything more than friends—ever—so it would make no difference to me, if he were here—except as a friend.”

the old man reached out his thin hand, took hers, and laid it against his cheek.

“then there was no need at all of his going away, since you knew?”

felicia gave a little involuntary cry, and twitched her hand, as the revelation burst upon her. the blood flooded her cheeks and sang in her ears. the former shame was nothing to this new one.

“he went away because he saw that i cared for him?” she asked chokingly.

“my poor little darling,” said the old man tenderly, “we did it all for the best.”

she stood by him in silence for a long time, while he petted her hand. at last she gathered strength.

“tell him,” she said, “that it was all a mistake—that he acted nobly and generously and delicately—but that i smiled when i heard it. tell him that i smiled, won’t you, dear professor? see, i am smiling—quite gaily, like the felicia you spoil. and now,”—she withdrew her hand gently—“i am going to telegraph to him. he and i together will soon bring you round again—but i alone am not sufficient.”

she administered a few feminine touches to the things on the table beside him, and went upon her self-imposed errand.

“i should like you to return as quickly as possible.

“chetwynd.”

she composed the wording of the telegram on her way to the office. it kept her from thinking of other things.

“there,” she said to herself as she wrote.

“that will not alarm him.”

meanwhile the invalid was sorely puzzled.

“i have made a mess of it from beginning to end,” he murmured wearily. “and yet i don’t think it can be dotage yet awhile. let me reason it all out.”

his eyes closed. he had put the argument into a syllogism in barbara, when his brain refused to act, and he fell asleep.