He glared at me for a moment, then scowled still more blackly and
growled deep in throat: "I can't think what has come over you. You
haven't the least right or cause to hate her. It's positively unmanly. Especially as she thinks of you far more highly than you deserve. She
feels it, too. You must have shown her how you regard her. She made me
feel a brute." "Look here, Hubbard," I cried, with a nicely assumed show of
indignation, "I want to oblige you and I want to keep the peace between
us, but I shan't be able to if you keep on defending her when you know
as well as I----"

"What?" he thundered. "That she is a butterfly!" I thundered back. "She is not!" he shouted. "She is!" I said. "You, you, you imbecile!" spluttered my poor friend. "I tell you
once and for all that is only one phase of her. I don't like it, I
admit," (he began to cool off), "but still it is only a phase. She is
in reality a woman of great depth of character." (He was quite cool by
this.) "I had a conversation with her the other night that astonished
me. Of course, I have always known that she is an educated woman,
but the extent of her knowledge had previously escaped me. She has
a much more than superficial acquaintance with the modern forms of
speculative philosophy. She has read Kant and Spencer and Nietzsche
with understanding: and she is now engaged in the study of Egyptian
history. You have interested her deeply in the subject." I shrugged my shoulders. "And from all this you conclude?" "That I have been an idiot not to recognise long ago that she is
my intellectual equal. And I have treated her as if she were an
irresponsible child." "But she is a woman." "Quite so," replied this converted woman-hater, "and because she is a
woman, and such a woman, she has the power to bless the man fortunate
enough to win her--her affection--as few men are blessed. Now you can
appreciate my position. I have blindly sacrificed my chance. I----"

"Pish!" I interrupted. "Tell her what you have told me and be blessed! You'll repent it all your life through." "It is too late," he groaned. "I have been weighed in the balance and
found wanting. Pride, if nothing else, would always prevent her from
forgiving me. She--liked me once, I think--but now----" He cleared his
throat and forced a wry smile. "She looks upon me as her treasurer and
friend. It was my own choice. I have no right to grumble." Then he
burst out suddenly, "But it's damnable, Pinsent, damnable!" Lady Helen's medicine was working like a charm. I thought it best
to let well enough alone. So I made a rude effort and changed the
conversation. We soon reached our journey's end. The inquest was a nightmare dreamed by day. The courtroom was filled
with poor Weldon's relatives. His father, the old baron, ostentatiously
turned his back on me. He seemed to think me in some way responsible
for his son's fate. Weldon's sisters, too, whom I knew slightly,
vouchsafed me no sign of recognition. His younger brother--now the
heir--was the only member of the family who extended the slightest
token of civility. He was so manifestly delighted at the unlooked-for
promotion of his prospects that I read in his warm hand-grip a secret
pæan of joy. He had been intended for that limbo of younger sons and
blue-blooded incompetents, the bar. Happily, the inquest was soon
over. I was only in the box five minutes, and a quarter-hour later the
verdict was recorded: "Accidental death." Hubbard and I returned at once to London. There arrived, I plunged
into work upon my book and for a space of two days I managed to forget
that the world contained anything but steles and obelisks and mural
hieroglyphic inscriptions which, though always half obliterate with
time, had somehow or other to be made sense of and translated into
English prose. Chapter XXI

Hubbard's Philosophy of Life


Weldon's funeral was held on the afternoon of the third day following
his death. His body was interred in the vault of his family at their
seat at Sartley, in Norfolk. I was not invited to attend, but I felt I
had to go. Miss Ottley was there with her father and Dr. Belleville. She was clad in deep mourning, and her face was thickly veiled. One
of Weldon's sisters sobbed throughout the ceremony, yet I do not
think she felt her brother's loss half as deeply as I did. I heard
her whisper to her neighbour once--between sobs--(I knelt immediately
behind her)--"Have you ever seen such callousness--not a tear, not
a sigh?" She was referring to Miss Ottley. I spent the rest of the
afternoon on the cliffs beside the sea. I did not wish to return by
the same train as the Ottleys, but destiny ruled otherwise, although
I waited for the last. It seemed that Sir Robert had overtaxed his
strength and had been obliged to rest. I had hardly taken my seat when
he was helped into the same compartment by Belleville and the porter. They made him comfortable with cushions, without observing me; but
Miss Ottley started as she entered, and raised her veil. "You!" she
muttered, then paused as if in doubt, eyeing Belleville. A second later
she let fall her veil again and sat beside me. Without asking anyone's
permission, Belleville turned down the light, leaving the compartment
in comparative obscurity. The porter muttered thanks for the tip and,
departing, locked the door. Plainly my presence had passed unnoticed. But an exclamation from
Belleville soon showed he had discovered me. "Excuse me, sir," he said,
"this carriage has been specially reserved." Then he recognised me. "Oh!" he cried. "You--but----"

But the train had begun to move. I sank back in my corner. Belleville
took the corner opposite. In a few minutes Sir Robert complained of the
light, in the manner of a sick man. Belleville sprang up and put it out
altogether. The darkness now was absolute. "If you will take this side, I can make you comfortable; there is a
cushion to spare," said Belleville's voice. He was not addressing me. "I prefer to remain where I am, thank you," said Miss Ottley, in a
frigid tone. Belleville sat down silently. Now and then I caught the glimmer of
his eyes from the reflection of passing lights, or the glow of the
engine smoke and steam, wind-blown beside the train. He was staring
into the corner which I occupied. I felt his hatred wrap and heat
me like a coat composed of nettles. And the man had occasion, for
ere long Miss Ottley's hand stole to mine, and she sighed when mine
enclosed and pressed it close. Belleville could not have known, yet
he must have felt we were in sympathy opposed to him--just as I felt
his hostile influence. It was a silent ride, but not uninteresting. Twice Belleville unexpectedly struck a match and flashed it in our
faces. But my rug covered the occupation of our hands. Once instinct
warned me that he was bending forward, peering and prying. I raised my
foot and brushed it in his beard. He fell back, coughing, to prevent
himself from cursing.