CHAPTER XXVI.

DID HE SAY SOMETHING MORE ABOUT RUTH?

Herbert Courtland had found his way to her drawing room on the afternoon of his return to London; and it was upon this circumstance rather than upon her own unusual behavior in the presence of George Holland that Phyllis was dwelling so soon as she had recovered from her tearful outburst on her bed. (She had, of course, run into her bedroom and thrown herself upon the bed the moment that she had left the presence of the man whom she had once promised to marry.) She had wept in the sheer excitement of the scene in which she had played the part of leading lady; it had been a very exciting scene, and it had overwhelmed her; she had not accustomed herself to the use of such vehement language as she had found necessary to employ in order to adequately deal with Mr. Holland and that was how it came about that she was overwhelmed.

But so soon as she had partially recovered from her excitement, and had dried her eyes, she began to think of the visit which had been paid to her, not by George Holland, but by Herbert Courtland. She dwelt, moreover, less upon his amusing account of the cruise of the Water Nymph than upon the words which he had said to her in regard to his last visit. She had expressed her surprise at seeing him. Had he not gone on a yachting cruise to Norway? Surely five days was under rather than over the space of time necessary to thoroughly enjoy the fine scenery of the fjords.

He had then laughed and said that he had received a letter at Leith making his immediate return absolutely necessary.

“How disappointed you must have felt!” she suggested, with something like a smile upon her face.

His smile was broader as he said:

“Well, I’m not so sure that my disappointment was such as would tend to make me take a gloomy view of life for an indefinite time. Lord Earlscourt is a very good sort of fellow; but——”

“Yes; I quite agree with you,” said she, still smiling. “Knowing what follows that ‘but’ in everyone’s mind, we all thought it rather strange on your part to start on that cruise. And so suddenly you seemed to make up your mind, too. You never hinted to me that afternoon that you were anxious to see Norway under the personal conductorship of Lord Earlscourt.”

“It would have been impossible for me to give you such a hint,” said he. “I had no idea myself that I wanted greatly to go to Norway, until I met Earlscourt.”

“So we gathered from what papa told us when he came in about midnight, bringing Mr. Linton with him,” said Phyllis. “Ella had come across to me before nine, to ask me to go with her to ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at Covent Garden, forgetting that I was dining with Lady Earlscourt.”

“But you had not returned from the dinner party at nine,” he suggested. She had certainly succeeded in arousing his interest, even in such ordinary details as those she was describing.

“Of course not; but Ella waited for me; I suppose she did not want to return to her lonely house. She seemed so glad when I came in that she made up her mind to stay with me all night.”

“Oh! But she didn’t stay with you?”

“Of course not, when her husband appeared. It was so funny—so startling.”

“So funny—so startling! Yes, it must have been—funny.”

“Ella was wearing such a lovely frock—covered with diamonds. I wish that you had seen her.”

“Ah!”

“I never saw anything so lovely. I told her that it was a bridal toilet.”

“A bridal toilet?”

“We thought it such a pity that it should be wasted. She didn’t go to the opera, of course.”

“And it was wasted—wasted?”

“Oh, no! When her husband came in with papa, about midnight, we laughed and said that her dressing herself in that way was an inspiration; that something told her that he was returning.”

“Probably a telegram from Paris had told her; that was the source of her inspiration.”

“Oh, no! what was so funny about the matter was that Mr. Linton’s servant bungled sending the telegram, so that Ella knew nothing of his coming.”

“Great Heavens!”

“You have not seen Ella since your return?”

“No; I have been with her husband on business all day, however.”

“And of course he would not have occasion to refer to so casual an incident as his wife’s wearing a new toilet.”

“Of course not. The word inspiration has no place in a commercial vocabulary, Miss Ayrton.”

“But it is a good word elsewhere, Mr. Courtland.

“Yes, it has its meaning. You think that it may be safely applied to the wearing of an effective toilet. I wonder if you would think of applying it to the words you said to me on the last evening I was here?”

It was in a very low tone, and after a long pause, that she said:

“I hope if what I told you Mrs. Haddon said was an inspiration, it was a good one. I felt that I must tell you, Mr. Courtland, though I fear that I gave you some pain—great pain. I know what it is to be reminded of an irreparable loss.”

“Pain—pain?” said he. Then he raised his eyes to hers. “I wonder if you will ever know what effect your words had upon me, Miss Ayrton?” he added. “I don’t suppose that you will ever know; but I tell you that it would be impossible for me ever to cease to think of you as my good angel.”

She flushed slightly, very slightly, before saying:

“How odd that Ella should call me her good angel, too, on that same night!”

“And she spoke the truth, if ever truth was spoken,” he cried.

Her face was very serious as she said:

“Of course I don’t understand anything of this, Mr. Courtland.”

“No,” he said; “it would be impossible for you to understand anything of it. It would be impossible for you to understand how I feel toward you—how I have felt toward you since you spoke those words in this room; those words that came to me as the light from heaven came to Saul of Tarsus; words of salvation. Believe me, I shall never forget them.”

“I am so glad,” said she. “I am glad, though, as I say, I understand nothing.”

Then there had been a long interval of silence before she had asked him something further regarding the yachting party.

And now she was lying on her bed trying to recall every word that he had spoken, and with a dread over her that what he had said would bear out that terrible suspicion which she had prayed to God to forgive her for entertaining on that night when Ella had gone home with her husband.

No rumor had reached her ears regarding the closeness of the intimacy existing between Mr. Courtland and Mrs. Linton; and thus it was that when that suspicion had come upon her, after Ella had left her, she felt that she was guilty of something akin to a crime—a horrible breach of friendship, only to be expiated by tears and prayers.

That terrible thought had been borne upon her as a suggestion to account for much that she could not understand in the words and the behavior of Ella during that remarkable evening; and, in spite of her remorse and her prayers, she could not rid herself of it. It left its impression upon her mind, upon her heart. Hitherto she had only heard about the way an unlawful passion sweeps over two people, causing them to fling to the winds all considerations of home, of husband, of religion, of honor; and she felt it to be very terrible to be brought face to face with such a power; it seemed to her as terrible as to be brought face to face with that personal Satan in whom she believed.

It only required such a hint as that which had come from George Holland to set her smoldering suspicion—suspicion of a suspicion—in a flame. It had flamed up before him in those words which she had spoken to him. If Ella were guilty, he, George Holland, was to be held responsible for her guilt.

But Ella was not guilty; Herbert Courtland was not guilty.

“No, no, no!” she cried, in the solitude of her chamber. “She did not talk as a guilty woman would talk; and he—he went straight out of the room where I had told him what Mrs. Haddon said about his mother, his sister—straight aboard the yacht; and she——”

All at once the truth flashed upon her; the truth—she felt that it was the truth; and both of them were guiltless. It was for Herbert Courtland that Ella had put on that lovely dress; but she was guiltless, he was guiltless. (Curiously enough, she felt quite as happy in the thought that he was guiltless.) Yes, Ella had come to her wearing that dress instead of waiting for him, and he——Ah, she now knew what he had meant when he had called her his good angel. She had saved him.

She flung herself on her knees in a passion of thanksgiving to God for having made her the means of saving a soul from hell—yes, for the time being.

And then she began to think what she should do in order that that soul should be saved forever.

It was time for her to dress for dinner before she had finished working out that great question, possibly the greatest question that ever engrossed the attention of a young woman: how to save the soul of a man, not temporarily, but eternally.

And all the time that she was in her room alone she had not a single thought regarding the scene through which she had passed with the Rev. George Holland. She had utterly forgotten him and his wickedness—his vain sophistries. She had forgotten all that he had said to her—his monstrous calumny leveled against her dearest friend; she even forgot her unjust treatment of George Holland and her rudeness—her unparalleled rudeness toward him. She was thinking over something very much more important. What was a question of mere etiquette compared to the question of saving a man’s soul alive?

But when she dined opposite to her father it was to the visit of George Holland she referred rather than to the visit of Herbert Courtland.

“What had George Holland got to say that was calculated to interest you?” her father inquired. The peaches were on the table and the servant had, of course, left the room.

“He had nothing to say of interest to me,” she replied.

“Nothing, except, of course, that his respectful aspiration to marry you——” suggested Mr. Ayrton.

“You need not put the ‘except’ before that, my papa,” said she.

“And yet I have for some years been under the impression that even when a man whom she recoils from marrying talks to a young woman about his aspirations in the direction of marriage, she is more interested than she would be when the man whom she wishes to marry talks on some other topic.”

“At any rate, George Holland didn’t interest me so long as he talked of his aspirations. Then he talked of—well, of something else, and I’m afraid that I was rude to him. I don’t think that he will come here again. I know that I shall never go to St. Chad’s again.”

“Heavens above! This is a pretty story to tell a father. How were you rude to him? I should like to have a story of your rudeness, merely to hold up against you for a future emergency.”

“I pointed to the door in the attitude of the heroine of one of the old plays, and when he didn’t leave at once, I left the room.”

“You mean to say that you left him standing in the middle of the room while you went away?”

“I told you that I was rude.”

“Rude, yes; but it’s one thing to omit to leave cards upon a hostess, and quite another to stare her in the face when she bows to you in the street. It’s one thing to omit sending a man a piece of your bridescake, and quite another to knock off his hat in the street. Rude, oh, my dear Phyllis!”

“If you knew what he said about—about someone whom I love—if you knew how angry I was, you would not say that I acted so atrociously, after all.”

“Oh! Did he say something more about Ruth?”

“He said too much—far too much; I cannot tell you. If any other man said so much I would treat him in the same way. You must not ask me anything further, please.”

“Rude and unrepentant, shocking and not ashamed. This is terrible. But perhaps it’s better that you should be rude when you’re young and beautiful; later on, when you’re no longer young, it will not be permitted in you. I’ll question you no further. Only how about Sunday?”

“I have promised Ella to go with her party to The Mooring for a week.”

“That will get over the matter of the church, but only for one Sunday. How about the next Sundays—until the prorogation? Now, don’t say the obvious ‘sufficient unto the Sunday is the sermon thereof.’”

“I certainly will not. I have done forever with St. Chad’s, unless the bishop interferes and we get a new rector.”

“Then that’s settled. And so we can drink our coffee in the drawing room with easy minds. Rude! Great Heavens!”