Double Harness. Anthony Hope

course were followed. To the disappointment which that course involved he had schooled himself, accepting it almost gladly as by so far the lesser evil.

      "If you were to talk to Sibylla now," he said, "I think you'd be reminded of those old days you once told me about. Fate has thumped her pretty severely for anything she did, but she's mortally anxious to be thumped more, and very angry with me because I won't allow it. Upon my word, I believe she'd be disappointed if Tarlton told us that the thing wasn't so bad after all, and that everything would go right without anything being done."

      "I daresay she would; but there's no chance of that?"

      "Well, I'm afraid not. One must believe one's medical man, I suppose, even if he's old Gardiner—and he seems quite sure of it." Grantley drank and sighed. "It's uncommonly perverse, when everything was so prosperous before."

      The day had left its traces on Jeremy. Though he had not told Grantley so, yet when he saw Sibylla thrown he had made no doubt she was killed—and she was the one person in the world whom he deeply loved. That fear was off him now, but the memory of it softened him towards her—even towards her foolishness, which he had been wont to divide very distinctly from her, and to consider himself free to deal with faithfully.

      "At best it'll be a most awful disappointment to her."

      "Yes, it must be that—and to me too," said Grantley.

      "She was just living in and for the thing, you know."

      Grantley made no answer this time; a shade of annoyance passed over his face.

      "She never could give herself to more than one thing at a time—with her that one thing was always the whole hog, and there was nothing else. That's just how it's been now."

      Jeremy's words showed true sympathy, and, moreover, a new absence of shame in expressing it; but Grantley did not accord them much apparent welcome. They came too near to confirming his suspicions; they harmonised too well with the soreness which remained from his impotent entreaties and unpersuasive caresses. Again without answering, he got up and lit his cigar.

      "Oh, by the way," Jeremy went on, "while you were with Sibylla that girl from the rectory came up—you know, Dora Hutting—to ask after Sibylla and say they were all awfully sorry and anxious, and all that, you know."

      "Very kind of them. I hope you told her so, and said what you could?"

      "Yes, that's all right. The girl seems awfully fond of Sibylla, Grantley. By Jove, when we got talking about her, she—she began to cry!"

      Grantley turned round, smiling at the unaccustomed note of pathos struck by Jeremy's tone.

      "Rather decent of her, wasn't it?" asked Jeremy.

      "Very nice. Did you console her?"

      "Oh, I didn't see what the devil I could say! Besides I didn't feel very comfortable—it was rather awkward."

      "I believe the girl's afraid of me—she always seems to come here when I'm away. Is she a pleasant girl, Jeremy?"

      "Oh, she—she seemed all right; and I—I liked the way she felt about Sibylla."

      "So do I, and I'll thank her for it. Is she getting at all prettier?"

      "Well, I shouldn't call her bad-looking, don't you know!"

      "She used to be a bit spotty," yawned Grantley.

      "I don't think she's spotty now."

      "Well, thank heaven for that anyhow!" said Grantley piously. "I hate spots above anything, Jeremy."

      "She hasn't got any, I tell you," said Jeremy, distinctly annoyed.

      Grantley smiled sleepily, threw himself on to his favourite couch, laid down his cigar, and closed his eyes. After the strain he was weary, and soon his regular breathing showed that he slept. Jeremy had got his pipe alight and sat smoking, from time to time regarding his brother-in-law's handsome features with an inquiring gaze. There was a new stir of feeling in Jeremy. A boy of strong intellectual bent, he had ripened slowly on the emotional side, and there had been nothing in the circumstances or chances of his life to quicken the process thus naturally very gradual. To-day something had come. He had been violently snatched from his quiet and his isolation, confronted with a crisis that commanded feeling, probed to the heart of his being by love and fear. Under this call from life nascent feelings grew to birth and suppressed impulses struggled for liberty and for power. He was not now resisting them nor turning from them. He was watching, waiting, puzzling about them, hiding them still from others, but no longer denying them to himself. He was wondering and astir. The manhood which had come upon him was a strange thing; the life that called him seemed now full of new and strange things. Through his fear and love for Sibylla he was entering on new realms of experience and of feeling. He sat smoking hard and marvelling that Grantley slept.

      Connected with this upheaval of mental conceptions which had hitherto maintained an aspect so boldly fundamental, and claimed to be the veritable rock of thought whereon Jeremy built his church, was the curious circumstance that he suddenly found himself rather sensitive about Grantley's careless criticism of Miss Dora Hutting's appearance. He had not denied the fact alleged about it, though he had the continuance of it. But he resented its mention even as he questioned the propriety of Grantley's sleeping. The reference assorted ill with his appreciation of Dora's brimming eyes and over-brimming sympathies. That he could not truthfully have denied the fact increased his annoyance. It seemed mean to remember the spots that had been on the face to which those brimming eyes belonged—as mean as it would have been in himself to recall the bygone grievances and the old—the suddenly old-grown—squabbles which he had had with the long-legged rectory girl. That old epithet too! A sudden sense of profanity shot across him as it came into his mind; he stood incomprehensively accused of irreverence in his own eyes.

      Yet the spots had existed; and Sibylla had been wrong—had been wrong, and was now, it appeared, unreasonable. Moreover, beyond question, Mumples was idiotic. Reason was alarmed in him, since it was threatened. He told himself that Grantley was very sensible to sleep. But himself he could not think of sleep, and his ears were hungry for every sound from the floor above.

      The stairs creaked—there was a sniff. Mrs. Mumple was at the door. Jeremy made an instinctive gesture for silence because Grantley slept. He watched Mrs. Mumple as she turned her eyes on the peacefully reposing form. The eyes turned sharp to him, and Mrs. Mumple raised her fat hands just a little and let them fall softly.

      "He's asleep?" she whispered.

      "You see he is. Best thing for him to do, too." His answering whisper was gruff.

      "She's not sleeping," said Mrs. Mumple; "and she's asking for him again."

      "Then we'd better wake him up." He spoke irritably as he rose and touched Grantley's shoulder. "He must be tired out, don't you see?"

      Mrs. Mumple made no answer. She raised and dropped her hands again.

      Grantley awoke lightly and easily, almost unconscious that he had slept.

      "What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Dora Hutting! Why, I believe I've been asleep!"

      "You've slept nearly an hour," said Jeremy, going back to his chair.

      Grantley's eyes fell on Mrs. Mumple; a slight air of impatience marked his manner as he asked:

      "Is anything wrong, Mrs. Mumple?"

      "She's asking for you again, Mr. Imason."

      "Dear me, Gardiner said she should be kept quiet!"

      "The doctor's lying down. But she'll not rest without seeing you; she's fretting so."

      "Have you been letting her talk about it and excite herself? Have you been talking to her yourself?"

      "How can we help talking about it?" Mrs. Mumple moaned.

      "It's infernally silly—infernally!" he exclaimed in exasperation. "Well, I must go to her, I suppose." He turned