In a dark corner of the church, whilst the marriage ceremony was going on, sat one spectator who had no eyes for the magnificent toilette of the bride, the starched respectability of the bridegroom, or any of the follies attendant upon the occasion. Arthur Golding’s sole purpose in coming had been to obtain, if possible, a glimpse of Helen Norman. He had seen her hitherto only in her simple morning dress, or in her neat but plain walking costume, and he was curious to observe the effect her beauty would produce when arrayed in the costume appropriate to a wedding. This, at least, was the excuse he made to himself for giving Mr. Tollady to understand that he was about to take an ordinary walk, and then hurrying off to the church where he knew the marriage was to take place and securing a “coign of vantage” before the strangers began to arrive.

It was purely an artist’s fancy, he had thought, a piece of study which might give him new ideas.

But never did artist gaze upon mere model with the fervour which led Arthur to seek eagerly for Helen’s face in the crowd, and, when he had found it, keep his eyes fixed upon its beauty till the very moment when it again disappeared from the church. For him the place was vacant of other forms and features, so intensely was his interest centred in that one alone. He had no need to compare her appearance with that of the other ladies present; for him her beauty was something absolute, a type of perfection which, in the nature of things, could not be compared with other types. He did not notice that her dress was much plainer and simpler than of those all around her; he merely knew that it was richer than that in which he had previously seen her, and that its adaptability to her loveliness was perfect. The strength of his admiration almost amounted to frenzy. He gazed at her till an actual halo, a visible aureola, seemed to glitter about her, and he feared to turn away his eyes for a moment lest the beautiful effect should vanish.

When at length he suddenly found the church empty, and rose to go away, he was not conscious of any one of his actions. So visibly did he retain Helen’s features in his memory, that they floated before him in the air as he walked, still surrounded by the aureola.

He regained his bedroom, which served him for a studio, and sat down before a picture he was then working at, intending to paint. It was impossible. Even as a vision of the sweet-faced Madonna may have floated before the eyes of Fra Angelico, and held his mind in a state of pious rapture till he took his pencil and, almost without the exertion of his will, embodied the tender outline in a tangible form, so Arthur sat, brush in hand, gazing into vacancy, unable to think of anything but the chaste features of Helen Norman, till, scarcely knowing what he did, he took up a fresh sheet of paper and began slowly and lovingly to outline what he saw. In ten minutes the sketch was finished, the likeness was complete, and with a loud cry of delight Arthur sprang to his feet and held it at arm’s length to sate his eyes upon it. He dared not add another touch, erase a line, lest the exquisite resemblance should be destroyed. What if it were but a rough outline in crayon? His imagination filled it out with the hues of life; it seemed to him to breathe, to smile. He had drawn it with the eyes directed full upon his own, and he now thought with rapture that Helen, his Helen, made his by this portrait, would for ever gaze upon him with that sweet, tender smile. No one could deprive him of this joy. However great the gulf that wealth and social dictates spread between himself and the original, however little Helen might think of him, she could not prevent her lifelike image from gazing upon him as he sat at work, breathing into his blood a rapture of enthusiasm for love, for beauty, for art, which would urge him to the achievement of great things. Henceforth Helen must be his Muse, his tutelary goddess. For a moment he had a glimpse into those regions of immeasurable exaltation which genius alone admits to; he felt that the world was within his grasp.

The sketch was too precious to be put away with the others. Repairing to a stationer’s hard by, he purchased a piece of mill-board, and upon this carefully mounted the drawing. He then emptied his best portfolio, henceforth to be reserved for the idol alone, and, having carefully tied the strings, put it away in a safe place. This done, he was too over-wrought to proceed as usual with his work. Seeing the afternoon to be very fine, he slung over his shoulders the little bag containing his sketch-book and pencils, and set off on a walk to Hampstead Heath.

Meanwhile, the house in Portland Place had assumed its wonted quiet air, but with the departure of the newly-married couple and, very shortly thereafter, of all the guests, a sense of loneliness had come upon those left behind which they did not ordinarily experience.

Mr. Gresham was in his studio, making believe to paint, for his hand refused to work as usual when his thoughts were straying he knew not where. Helen was in her room, busy at some correspondence which arose out of her work in the East End. Upon the completion of this, she endeavoured to study, but wholly without success. The thought of Maud too completely occupied her mind, and made her sad. It was a relief to both guardian and ward when at length the dinner bell rang, calling them from the cheerless company of their own reflections.

“Well, Helen,” said Mr. Gresham, as they took their seats at table, “now that Maud has left us to our own devices, I suppose the first thing to be done is to decide how we are to spend the next two months. What do you propose?”

“My time will be quite fully occupied,” replied Helen, in a tone of natural decision; “but no doubt you purpose taking your usual holiday?”

“And no doubt you purpose doing the same,” said her guardian, with good-natured mockery. “Do you imagine I shall permit you to remain in town all through the autumn, and come back to find you worn to a skeleton?”

“You need not anticipate the latter extremity,” said Helen, smiling; “but it will be impossible for me to leave town.”

Mr. Gresham had learned the significance of the quiet but decisive tone in which his ward delivered these words. He glanced at her furtively, and read the same significance in her undisturbed features.

The rest of the dinner, which was quickly finished, passed almost in silence. Only when the dessert was on the table, and the servant who had been waiting had retired, did the artist renew the conversation in earnest.

“Bye-the-by, Helen,” he began, “did it ever strike you that, now we have lost Maud, I must have some one to look after my house in her place?”

“Yes, I have thought it might be necessary,” replied Helen.

“You have? I never thought of it till Maud brought up the subject the other day.”

Mr. Gresham played with his walnuts as he spoke, and from time to time glanced timidly at Helen from beneath his eyebrows.

“Do you know,” he said, at length, smiling as he always did when about to advance some particularly audacious proposition, “I have been thinking that, rather than go to the trouble of hunting up such a person from among my list of distant relatives, I would sell the house and emigrate to the farm in Dorsetshire. I might live there in rural peace and happiness for the few remaining years of my life. Might I not, Helen?”

“The few remaining years!” exclaimed Helen, smiling. “I trust that you may reasonably hope for more than a few, Mr. Gresham.”

“Think so? Well, perhaps I may. Do you know my age?”

“I am a bad judge of such questions.

“Well, I am just forty-three. Upon the whole, one is rather young than otherwise at forty-three. Don’t you think so, Helen?”

“At all events, far from old.”

“Yes,” said the artist, as if reflecting, “I was married at twenty-two, when I was a boy, and didn’t know my own mind.”

Helen looked curiously at him; but, meeting his covert glance, again dropped her eyes.

“Upon my word I have a good mind to carry out the scheme. Do you think I should make a good gentleman-farmer, Helen? Should I be apt to learn the price of grains and bullocks, think you?”

“Not very, I fear.”

“Indeed! But why?”

“It is merely a guess,” said Helen; “but I fancy you would never be so much at home in the country as you are in the city.”

“Upon the whole, I think you are right,” exclaimed her guardian laughing. “No, the Dorsetshire farm is in very good hands, and doubtless had better remain as it is. But then we revert to the old question. Who is to take care of my house?”

“You spoke of distant relatives,” said Helen; “do you know of anyone who would suit you?”

“Only one. That is an aunt, a sister of my mother, who, I believe, is very little older than myself. She is a widow without children, living in Birmingham.”

“Do you think she would like to come to London?”

“I really have no idea, but I might ask her.”

There was again a short silence.

“But I had hoped there would be no need of that just yet,” pursued, in a disappointed tone. “I imagined you would town till at least the end of September, and then it would have been time enough to think of my aunt. It would be the easiest thing in the world to make up a party. The Lights are just thinking of going to Ireland, and they would be delighted if we would join them. You would have Mrs. Leigh with her two daughters to chaperon you. Surely you do not mean, Helen, that you intend to stay at home?”

“I seriously mean it, Mr. Gresham.”

“But why? Are you too ascetical to permit yourself a holiday?”

“At present I really have no need of one,” replied Helen. “Then next week I begin my evening school. You would not wish me to disappoint the poor girls who are looking forward to a chance of learning to read and write? Mr. Heatherley thinks I shall have at least a dozen to begin with.”

Helen ceased, and her guardian made no reply. His brow lowered slightly as he heard the clergyman’s name mentioned.

“Mr. Heatherley,” pursued Helen, in unconsciousness of the last movement, “has had no holiday for three years. I heard so from an old lady whom I occasionally meet at his house.”

“Do you go often to his house?” asked Mr. Gresham, cracking a walnut somewhat fiercely.

“Not very frequently. If I wish to see him we generally meet at the chapel. Indeed he is very seldom at home. I should not have thought it possible for anyone to work as hard and as continuously as Mr. Heatherley does.”

The artist rose suddenly from his chair.

“Then I understand,” he said in a rather husky tone, which caused Helen to look up in surprise, “that it is impossible to persuade you to leave town?”

“I really must not,” returned Helen, rising and looking at her guardian with a smile which was not returned.

“Then I remain at home myself,” said the latter.

“But not, I trust, on my account?” said Helen. “Mrs. Thomson — the housekeeper — is quite capable of seeing ——”

“No, no,” broke in Mr. Gresham, turning away his head, “of course not only on your account, Helen. I have a picture or two that I must get off my hands. Yes, I shall stay at home.”

“I am sure you will alter your mind,” urged his ward. “You really require a holiday. I hope you will alter your mind, Mr. Gresham.”

“You are anxious to get me away?” he said, and immediately feeling that the words had been spoken unguardedly and with some rudeness, reddened a little and laughed. “Yes, yes,” he repeated, in a jocular tone, “you are anxious to get rid of me, Helen.”

“I am anxious that you should not break an agreeable custom solely on my account,” returned his ward. “It would distress me to think you did so.”

“It would? Then I shall think the matter over.”

Helen nodded, smiled, and left the room.

“What the devil did she mean by that,” muttered her guardian to himself, when he was left alone. Then he struck the table a blow with his clenched fist, drank off what remained in his wine-glass, and walked away, seemingly in no very good humour.

What could be the matter with Mr. Gresham? All the next day he paced up and down, first in the studio, then in the library, quite unable to settle to anything. Several visitors who called were dismissed with the reply that he was not at home; he had no taste whatever for conversation. At meals he spoke very little, but, as often as Helen was not looking, watched her from beneath his eyebrows constantly. When she asked him whether he had decided to go to Ireland, he replied that he was thinking the matter over. If so, it appeared to occasion him more reflection than so slight a matter had ever done before. He could scarcely be well.

In the evening he decided to take a walk. Just as he issued from the door into the street, the postman was about to put some letters into the box. He took them from his hands instead, and examined the addresses. Two were for himself, and one was for Helen. Mr. Gresham altered his intention of going for a walk, and went into the library.

He was in no hurry to open his own letters; that directed to Helen seemed to absorb all his attention. On looking at the post-mark he saw that it had been posted in the east of London. That, and the fact that the address was written in a bold male hand, satisfied him that it was from Mr. Heatherley. It was a pity that Mr. Gresham had not just missed the post. man on leaving the house.

Holding this letter in both hands behind his back he once more began to pace the room. Mr. Gresham was, without doubt, a gentleman as far as ordinary manners and social condition went, but it was unfortunate for him that he had decided to live without the guidance of any such thing as principle, that, indeed, he did not think the business of life serious enough to require more than tact in its transaction. This state of mind would have been still more unfortunate had Mr. Gresham been so unhappy as to be a poor man; being, on the contrary, a rich man, he had never yet met with any temptation sufficiently strong to call for firm principle to resist it. Without a doubt he would himself have conceded this to you in argument, and, for the same reasons, would have looked with the most liberal tolerance on a poor man whom temptation had caught unawares and led into mischief. This was one of the better points in his character. But the fact remained that Mr. Gresham had not principle. Had he possessed it, he would, in the present instance, have thrown Helen’s letter on to the table, rung the bell, and ordered it to be taken to her. As it was, for some cause or other, he seemed wholly incapable of letting it escape his hands. The expression which rested upon his face, meanwhile, was half a frown, half an ironical grin — a smile it could hardly be called — just as if there were at that moment two voices speaking within himself, the one a rather angry and serious one, the other an ironical, bantering voice, very much like that in which he usually spoke. Several times he gave utterance to exclamations, such as “Pooh! psha!” evidently part of the internal argument. Then he again looked at the letter, and it seemed to decide him.

Quickly he tore it open and came to the contents. They were these —

“Dear Miss Norman, “You will be glad to hear that I have a list of thirteen girls, all more than fifteen years old, who will gladly attend your class on Tuesday and Saturday evenings. I have told them, as you instructed me, that next Tuesday would be the first evening.

“Faithfully yours, “E. W. Heatherley.”

Mr. Gresham quickly crushed the letter in his hand, and then thrust it into his pocket, with an extremely unpleasant expression of countenance. He seemed disappointed that he had not found more. The next moment he broke into a low laugh.

“And I have made a damned fool of myself for that! Pooh! I need not fear Heatherley. He’s only a parson.

Muttering this he resumed his intention of taking a walk, and left the house.

This little event formed an epoch in the life of Mr. Gresham. Had he been told, but a very few months previously, by some plain-speaking and clear-seeing cynic, that he would one day commit an act which the polite world has agreed to brand as dishonourable, he would have listened to the prophecy with silent contempt; had he been further told that he would commit this act under the impulse of an ignoble jealousy, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. For all that, he had today been both shamefully dishonourable and unmistakably jealous. The effect of the unconsidered act could not but prove most disastrous to himself. If previously he had renounced the guidance of principle, he had at all events been tolerably well led by pride and prudence in the same paths in which the former would have guided him; now that he had absolutely set principle at defiance, his pride would henceforth be his evil genius, bidding him look with contempt upon the rules of morality he had hitherto observed, whilst his prudence would only serve him in keeping secret the outrages of which he might be guilty. Had he been twenty years younger, it is just possible that this act of dishonour with its altogether futile results might have proved such a salutary lesson that, with the help of that new and strong passion which was for the first time taking possession of his being, it might have effected a wholesome revolution in his views of life. As it was, such a result was impossible. The man was too hardened in his career of eternal scepticism. For the future, instead of being a mere sceptic, he would be a hypocrite, a character still more despicable. But nature, whose dictates he had so long violated, had prepared a severe punishment for him. Henceforth Mr. Gresham is rather a subject for pity than indignation.

When he and Helen met at dinner on the following evening the latter’s first remark caused him acute suffering.

“It is a curious thing,” she said, looking directly at h guardian, “Mr. Heatherley tells me that he posted a letter for me yesterday, about noon, which I ought to have received by one of the evening posts. Yet it has never come.

“Very curious,” replied Mr. Gresham, forcing himself to re turn her direct gaze. “Have you made enquiry of the servants?”

“Yes. They tell me we had no letters yesterday except by the morning post. No doubt it is the fault of the post office. Have you ever failed to receive letters?”

“Once or twice, I think, at long intervals. But never anything of consequence. I hope your letter was not important?”

“Oh, no; not at all. Merely a note in reference to my evening classes. I begin on Tuesday, Mr. Gresham.”

“What sort of pupils shall you have?” asked Mr. Gresham, relieved at length, and smiling in the usual manner.

“Mostly grown up girls. Girls who are hard at work all day, poor things, and have never had the opportunity of learning to read and write.”

“What are your hours?”

“From eight to ten, using a room in the chapel for schoolroom. You cannot imagine the pleasure with which I look forward to these lessons. As the attendance is of course purely voluntary, I know I shall have some capital scholars. And then I hope by degrees to be able to find better situations for those who show themselves able and industrious. Mr. Heatherley is doing his best to interest several ladies in the scheme, whose help will be very useful.”

“But eight to ten!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham. “That is horribly late, Helen. You won’t be home till eleven. Do you consider it altogether ladylike to be travelling about London, alone, at such hours?”

“I certainly see no objection to it,” replied Helen, “when one’s engagements make it necessary.

“H’m. You are aware, I presume, that young ladies do not, as a rule, permit themselves to indulge in such night excursions; that, in fact, it is hardly considered bon ton?”

“The ordinances of so-called society concern me very little, as you know, Mr. Gresham. As yet I am unconscious of having in any way neglected propriety. It is only between the chapel and the station that there could be any real danger for me, and in that walk Mr. Heatherley will always be kind enough to accompany me. It happens to lie in his way as he goes home.”

Mr. Gresham flinched visibly at these words, and endeavoured, by raising his glass to drink, to conceal the expression which rose involuntarily to his countenance. He made no reply, and the meal continued in silence.

As they rose, at its conclusion, Helen asked whether Mr. Gresham had yet. decided upon leaving town.

“I find I have too............