 Section 10 of Studies in Love and in Terror. Read by Angelique G. Campbell, October 2018. Studies in Love and in Terror by Marie Bellach-Lowns. The Woman from Purgatory, Part 1. Not dead, this friend. Not dead. But, in the path we mortals tread, got some few little steps ahead and nearer to the end, so that you too, once past the bend, shall meet again, as face to face, this friend, you fancy, dead. Mrs. Barlow, the prettiest and the happiest and the best dressed of the young wives of Summerfield, was walking toward the Catholic Church. She was going to consult the old priest as to her duty to an unsatisfactory servant, for Agnes Barlow was a conscientious, as well as a pretty and a happy woman. Foolish people are fond of quoting a foolish jibe. Be good, and you may be happy, but you will not have a good time. The wise, however, soon became aware that if, in the course of life's journey, you achieve goodness and happiness, you will almost certainly have a good time, too. So at least, Agnes Barlow had found in her own short life. Our excellent parents had built one of the first to new houses in what had then been the pretty, old-fashioned village of Summerfield, some fifteen miles from London. There she had been born. There she had spent delightful years at the big convent school over the hill. There she had grown up into a singularly pretty girl. And there, finally, and it seemed quite final to Agnes, she had met the clever, fascinating young lawyer, Frank Barlow. Frank had soon become the lover all her girlfriends had envied her, and then the husband who was still, so he was fond of saying and of proving in a dozen dear little daily ways, as much in love with her as on the day they were married. They lived in a charming house called the Haven, and they were the proud parents of a fine little boy, named Francis, after his father, who never had any of the tiresome ailments which afflict other people's children. But strange, dreadful things do happen, not often, of course, but just now and again, even in this delightful world. So thought Agnes Barlow on this pleasant May afternoon. Where as she walked to church, this pretty, happy, good woman, found her thoughts dwelling uncomfortably on another woman, her sometime intimate friend and contemporary, who was neither good nor happy. This was Teresa Maldow, a lovely half Spanish girl who had been her favorite schoolmate at the convent over the hill. Poor, foolish, unhappy wicket Teresa. Only ten days ago Teresa had done a thing so extraordinary, so awful, so unprecedented that Agnes Barlow had thought of little else ever since. Teresa Maldow had eloped, gone right away from her home and her husband, and with a married man. Teresa and Agnes were the same age. They had had the same upbringing. They were both in a very different way, however, beautiful. And they had each been married six years before on the same day of the month. But how different had been their subsequent fates? Teresa had it once discovered that her husband drank. But she loved him. And for a while it seemed that marriage would reform Maldow. Unfortunately, this better state of things did not last. He again began to drink. And the matrons of Summerfield soon had reason to shake their heads over the way Teresa Maldow went on. Men, you see, were so sorry for this lovely young woman, blessed or cursed, with what old-fashioned folk called the come hither eye, that they made it their business to console her such a worthless husband as was Maldow. No wonder Teresa and Agnes drifted apart. No wonder Frank Barlow soon forbade his spotless Agnes to accept Mrs. Maldow's invitations. And Agnes knew that her dear Frank was right. She had never much enjoyed her visits to Teresa's house. But an odd thing had happened about a fortnight ago. And it was to this odd happening that Agnes's mind persistently recurred each time she found herself alone. About three days before Teresa Maldow had done the mad and wicked thing of which all Summerfield was still talking, she had paid a long call on Agnes Barlow. The unwelcome guest had stayed a very long time. She had talked, as she generally did talk now, wildly and rather strangely. And Agnes, looking back, was glad to remember that no one else had come in while her old school fellow was there. When at last Teresa Maldow had made up her mind to go. Luckily, some minutes before Frank was due home from town, Agnes accompanied her to the gate of the Haven. And there the other had turned round and made such odd remarks. I came to tell you something, she had exclaimed. But now that I see you looking so happy, so pretty and forgive me for saying so Agnes, so horribly good, I feel that I cannot tell you. But Agnes, whatever happens, you must pity and, and if you can, understand me. It was now painfully clear to Agnes Barlow that Teresa had come that day intending to tell her once devoted friend of the wicked thing she meant to do, and more than once, pretty and good, Mrs. Barlow, had asked herself uneasily whether she could have done anything to stop Teresa on her downward course. But no. Agnes felt her conscience clear. How would it have been possible for her even to discuss with Teresa so shameful a possibility as that of a woman leaving her husband with another man? Agnes thought of the two sinners with a touch of fascinating curiosity. They were said to be in Paris, and Teresa was probably having a very good time. A wildly amusing, exciting time. She even told herself, did this pretty, happy, fortunate young married woman, that it was strange, and not very fair, that vice and the pleasure should always go together. It was just a little irritating to know that Teresa would never again be troubled by the kind of worries that played quite an important part in Agnes's own blameless life. Never again, for instance, would Teresa's cook give her notice as Agnes's cook had given her notice that morning. It was about that matter she wished to see Father Ferguson, for it was through the priest she had heard of the impertinent Irish girl who cooked so well, but who had such an independent manner, and who would not wear a cap. Yes, it certainly seemed unfair that Teresa would now be rid of all domestic worries. Nay, more, that the woman who had sinned would live in luxurious hotels, motoring and shopping all day, going to the theatre or to a music hall each night. At last, however, Agnes dismissed Teresa Muldoe from her mind. She knew that it was not healthy to dwell over much on such people and their doings. The few acquainted those Mrs. Barlow met on her way smiled and nodded, but as she was walking rather quickly, no one tried to stop her. She had chosen the back way to the church because it was the prettiest way and also because it would take her by house where a friend of hers was living in lodgings. And suddenly a very friend in question, his name was Farrar, came out of his lodgings. He had a tall, slight active figure. He was dressed in a blue Sarge suit and, though it was still early spring, he wore a straw hat. Agnes smiled a little inward smile. She was, as we already know, a very good as well as a happy woman. But a woman as pretty as was Agnes Barlow meets with frequent pleasant occasions of withstanding temptation, of which those about her, especially her dear parents and her kind husband, are often curiously unknowing. And the tall, well-set-up, masculine figure, now hurrying toward her with such eager steps, played a considerable part in Agnes's life. If only as constantly providing her with occasions of acquiring merit. Agnes knew very well, even the least imaginative woman as always acutely conscious of such a fact, that has she not been a prudent and a laid-like as well as, of course, a very good woman, this clever, agreeable, interesting young man, would have made love to her. As it was, he, of course, did nothing of the kind. He did not even try to flirt with her, as our innocent Agnes understood that much tried verb. And she regarded their friendship as a pleasant interlude in her placid, well-regulated existence, and as a most excellent influence on his more agitated life. Mr. Ferrier lifted his hat. He smiled down into Agnes's blue eyes. What a very charming, nay, what beautiful eyes they were. Deeply, exquisitely blue, but unshadowed, as innocent of guile, as are our child's eyes. Somehow I had a kind of feeling that you would be coming by just now. He sat in a rather hesitating voice. So I left my work and came out on chance. Now, Agnes was very much interested in Mr. Ferrier's work. Mr. Ferrier was not only a writer, the only writer she had ever known. He was also a poet. She had been pleasantly thrilled the day he gave her a slim little book, on each page of which was a poem. This gift had been made when they had known each other only two months, and he had inscribed it. From GGF to AMB. Mr. Ferrier had a charming studio, flat in Chelsea, that odd, remote place where London artists live, far from the pleasant London of the shops and theatres, which was all Agnes knew of the greatest city near which she dwelt. But he always spent the summer in the country, and his summer lasted from the first of May till the first of October. He had already spent two holidays at Summerfield, and had been a great deal at the Haven. Worm with Mr. Ferrier, and they were much together during the long weekdays when Summerfield is an atomless Eden, Agnes Barlow made a point of often speaking of dear Frank and of Frank's love for her. Not, of course, in a way that anyone could have regarded as silly, but in a natural, happy, simple way. How very, very easy it is to keep this kind of friendship, friendship between a man and a woman, but then bounds, and how terribly sad it was to think that Theresa Maldo had not known how to do that easy thing. But then, Theresa's lover had been a married man separated from his wife, and that, doubtless, made all the difference. Agnes Barlow could assure herself, in all sincerity, that had Mr. Ferrier been the husband of another woman, she would never have allowed him to become her friend to the extent that he was now. Mr. Ferrier, Agnes never allowed herself to think of him as Gerald, although he had once asked her to call him by his Christian name, held an evening paper in his hand. I was really on my way to the Haven, he observed, but there are a few verses of mine in this paper which I am anxious you should read. Shall I go on and leave it at your house, or will you take it now? And then, if I may, I will call for it some time tomorrow. Should I be likely to find you in about four o'clock? Yes, I'll be in about four, and I think I'll take the paper now. And then, where she was walking very slowly, in Barrier, with his hands behind his back, kept pace with her. Agnes could not resist the pleasure of looking down at the open sheet, where the newspaper was so turned about that she could see the little set of verses quite plainly. The poem was called My Lady of the Snow, and it told in very pretty, complicated language of a beautiful, pure woman whom the writer loved in a desperate, but quite respectful way. She grew rather red. I must hurry on, for I am going to church, she said a little stiffly. Good evening, Mr. Barrier. Yes, I will keep the paper till tomorrow, if I may. I would like to show it to Frank. He hasn't been to the office today, for he isn't very well, and he will like to see an evening paper. Mr. Barrier lifted his hat with a rather sad look, and turned back toward the house where he lodged. And as Agnes walked on, she felt disturbed and a little uncomfortable. Her clever friend had evidently been grieved by her apparent lack of appreciation of his poem. When she reached the church her parents had helped to build, she went in, knelt down, and said a prayer. Then she got up and walked through into the sacristy. Father Ferguson was almost certain to be there just now. Agnes had known the old priest all her life. He had baptized her. He had been chaplain at the convent during the year she had been at school there. And now he had come back to be parish priest at Summerfield. When with Father Ferguson, Agnes somehow never felt quite so good as she did when she was by herself, or with a strange priest. And yet Father Ferguson was always very kind to her. As she came into the sacristy he looked round with a smile. Well, he said, well, Agnes, my child, what can I do for you? Agnes put the newspaper she was holding down on a chair. And then, to her surprise, Father Ferguson took up the paper and glanced over the front page. He was an intelligent man, and sometimes he found Summerfield a rather shot in stifling sort of place. But the priest's instinct of wish to know something of what was passing in the great world outside the suburb where it was his duty to dwell did him an old turn. Or something, he read in the paper, caused him to utter a low, quick exclamation of intense pain and harm. What's the matter? cried Agnes Barlow, brightened out of her usual self complacency. Whatever has happened, Father Ferguson? He pointed with a shaking finger to a small paragraph. It was headed, Suicide of a Lady at Dover. And Agnes read the few lines with bewildered and shocked amazement. Theresa Maldow, whom she had visioned only a few minutes ago, as leading a merry, gloriously careless life with her lover, was dead. She had thrown herself out of a bedroom window in a hotel at Dover, and she had been killed instantly, dashed into a shapeless mass on the stones below. Agnes stared down at the curt, cold little paragraph with excited horror. She was six and twenty, but she had never seen death. And, as far as she knew, the girls with whom she had been at school were all living. Theresa, poor, unhappy, sinful Theresa, had been the first to die, and by her own hand. The old priest's eyes slowly brimmed over with tears. Poor, unhappy child, he said, with a break in his voice. Poor, unfortunate Theresa. I did not think I should never have believed that she would seek and find this terrible way out. Agnes was a little shocked at his broken words. True, Theresa had been very unhappy, and it was right to pity her, but she had also been very wicked. And now she had put, as it were, the seal on her wickedness by killing herself. Three or four days before she went away, she came and saw me. The priest went on, in a low paint voice. I did everything in my power to stop her, but I could do nothing. She had given her word. Given her word? repeated Agnes, wonderingly. Yes, said Father Ferguson. She had given that wretched, that wickedly selfish man her promise. She believed that if she broke her word, he would kill himself. I begged her to go and see some woman, some kind, pitiful, understanding woman. But I suppose she feared that such a one would dissuade her to more purpose than I was able to do. Agnes looked at him with troubled eyes. She was very dear to my heart, the priest went on. She was always a generous, unsettled-fished child. And she was very, very fond of you, Agnes. Agnes's throat tightened. What Father Ferguson said was only too true. Theresa had always been a very generous and unselfish girl and very, very fond of her. She wondered remorsefully if she had a minute to do or say anything she could have done or said on the day that Theresa had come and spoken such strange, wild words. It seemed so awful, she said in a low voice. So very, very awful to think that we may not even pray for her soul, Father Ferguson. Not pray for her soul, the priest repeated. Not pray for her soul, the priest repeated. Why should we not pray for the poor child's soul? I shall certainly pray for Theresa's soul every day till I die. But, but how can you do that when she killed herself? He looked at her surprised. And though you really so far dealt with God's mercy, surely we may hope, nay, trust, that Theresa had time to make an act of contrition, and then he muttered something. It sounded like a line or two of poetry, which Agnes did not quite catch, but she felt, as she often did feel when with Father Ferguson, at once rebuked and rebellious. Of course, there might have been time for Theresa to make an act of contrition, but everyone knows that to take one's life is a deadly sin. Agnes felt quite sure that if it ever occurred to her to do such a thing, she would go straight to hell. Still, she was used to obey this old priest, and that, even when she did not agree with him. So she followed him into the church, and side by side, they knelt down, and each set a separate prayer for the soul of Theresa Melando. As Agnes Barlow walked slowly and soberly home, this time by the high road, she tried to remember the words, the lines of poetry that Father Ferguson had muttered. They at once haunted and eluded her memory. Surely, they could not be. Between the window and the ground, she mercy-salt, and mercy-found. No, Agnes was sure that he had not said window, and yet window seemed the only word that would fit the case. And he had not said, she mercy-found. He had said, he mercy-salt, and mercy-found. That Agnes felt sure, and that too was odd. But then Father Ferguson was very odd sometimes, and he was fond of quoting in his sermons queer little pieces of verse of which no one had ever heard. Suddenly she bethought herself, with more annoyance than the matter was worth, that in her agitation she had leapt Mr. Ferrier's newspaper in the sacristy. She did not like the thought that Father Ferguson would probably read those pretty curious lines. My Lady of the Snow. Also, Agnes had actually forgotten to speak to the old priest of her impertinent cock. End of Section 10, read by Angelique Campbell, October 2018. Section 11 of Studies in Love and in Terror. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, read by Angelique Campbell, November 2018. Studies in Love and in Terror. By Marie Bella Clowns, The Woman from Purgatory, Part II. We find Agnes Barlow again walking in Summerfield, but this time she is hurrying along the straight, unlovely, cinder-strewn path which forms a shortcut from the back of the haven to Summerfield Station. And this still, heavy calm of a late November afternoon broods over the rough ground on either side of her. It is nearly six months since Theresa Maldo's elopement and subsequent suicide. And now no one ever speaks of poor Theresa. No one seems to remember that she ever lived, accepting, perhaps, Father Ferguson. As for Agnes herself, life had crowded far too many happenings into the last few weeks for her to give more than a passing thought to Theresa. Indeed, the image of her dead friend rose before her only wish she was saying her prayers. And, as Agnes, strange to say, had grown rather careless as to her prayers, the memory of Theresa Maldo was now very faint indeed. An awful and her an incredible thing had happened to Agnes Barlow. The root of her snug and happy house of life had fallen in, as she lay, blinded and maimed beneath the fragments which had been hurled down on her in one terrible moment. Yes, it had all happened in a moment, so she now reminded herself with the dull ache which never left her. It was just after she had come back from Westgate with Little Francis. The child had been ailing for the first time in his life, and she had taken him to the seaside for six weeks. There, in a day, it had turned from summer to winter, raining as it only rains at the seaside. And suddenly, Agnes had made up her mind to go back to her nice, comfortable home a whole week before Frank expected her back. Agnes sometimes acted like that on a quick impulse. She did so to her own undoing on that dull, rainy day. When she reached Summerfield, it was to find her telegram to her husband lying unopened on the hall table of the Haven. Frank, it seemed, had slept in town the night before. Not that that mattered, so she told herself gleefully, full of the pleasant joy of being again in her own home. A surprise would be the greater and the more welcome when Frank did come back. Having nothing better to do that first afternoon, Agnes had gone up to her husband's dressing room in order to look over his summer clothes before sending them to the cleaner. In her careful, playing-and-health-wifely fashion, she had turned out the pockets of his cricketing coat. There, a little to her surprise, she had found three letters and idle curiosity as to Frank's invitations during her long stay away. Frank was deservedly popular with the ladies of Summerfield and, indeed, with all the women, caused her to take the three letters out of their envelopes. In a moment. How terrible that it should take but a moment to shatter the fabric of a human being's innocent house of life, Agnes had seen what had happened to her. To him. For each of these letters, written in the same sloping woman's hand, was a love letter signed Cheney. And in each the writer, in a plaintive, delicate, but insistent and reproachful way, asked Frank for money. Even now, though nearly seven weeks had gone by since then, Agnes could recall with painful vividness the sick, cold feeling that had come over her, a feeling of fear rather than anger, of fear and desperate humiliation. Liking the door of the dressing-room, she had searched eagerly a dishonorable thing to do, as she well knew. And soon she had found other letters, letters and bills, bills of meals at restaurants, showing that her husband and a companion had constantly dined and subbed at the Savoy, the Carlton, and Princess. To those restaurants where he had taken her, Agnes, two or three times a year, laughing and grumbling at the expense, he had taken this, this person, again and again in this short time his wife had been away. As to the further letters, all they proved was that Frank had first met Janey Cartwright over some law business of hers connected, even Agnes saw the irony of it, and some shameful way with another man. For, tied together or a few notes signed with the writer's full name, of which the first began, deal must borrow, forgive me for writing to your private address, etc., etc. The ten days that followed her discovery had seared Agnes' soul. Frank had been so dreadfully affectionate. He had pretended. She felt sure it was all pretense. She'd be so glad to see her again. Though sometimes she caught him looking at her with cowled, measurable eyes. More than once he had asked her solicitously if she felt ill. And she said yes, she did feel ill. And the time at the seaside had not done her any good. And then, on the last of those terrible ten days, Gerald Ferrier had come down to Summerfield, and both she and Frank had pressed him to stay on to dinner. He had done so, though aware that something was wrong, and he had been extraordinarily kind, sympathetic, unquestioning. But as he was leaving, he had said a word to his host. I feel worried about Mrs. Barlow. Agnes had heard him through the window. She doesn't look the thing somehow. How would it be if I asked her to go with me to a private view? It might cheer her up, and perhaps she would lunch with me afterwards. Frank had eagerly assented. Since then Agnes had gone up to London, if not every day, and Mr. Ferrier had done his best without much success to cheer her up. Though they soon became more intimate than they had ever been, Agnes never told Ferrier what it was that had turned her from a happy, unquestioning child into a miserable woman. But of course, he guessed. And gradually Frank also had come to know that she knew, and a manlike. He spent less and less time in his now uncomfortable home. He would go away in the morning an hour earlier than usual, and then, under pretext of business keeping him late at the office, he would come back after having dined, doubtless with Janey, in town. Soon Agnes began to draw a terrible comparison between these two men, between the husband who had all she had of heart, and the friend whom she now acknowledged to herself, for hypocrisy had fallen away from her, had lived only for her, and for the hours they were able to spend together during two long years, and yet, who had never told her of his love, or tried to disturb her trust in Frank? Yes. Gerald Ferrier was all that was noble. Frank Barlow, all that was ignoble. So she told herself with trembling lip a dozen times a day, taking fierce comfort in the knowledge that Ferrier was noble. But she was destined even to lose that comfort. For one day, a week before the day when we find her walking to Summerfield Station, Ferrier's nobility, or what poor Agnes took to be such, suddenly broke down. They had been walking together in Battersea Park and, after one of those long silences, which bespeak true intimacy between a man and a woman, he had asked her if she would come back to his rooms for tea. She had shaken her head smilingly. And then he had turned on her with a torrent of impetuous burning words, words of ardent love, of anguished longing, of eager pleading. And Agnes had been frightened, fascinated, alert. And that had not been all. More quietly he had gone on to speak as if the code of morality in which his friend had been bred, and which had hitherto so entirely satisfied her, was, after all, nothing but a narrow council of perfection, suited to those who were sheltered and happy, but wretchedly inadequate to meet the needs of the greater number of human beings who are, as Agnes now was, humiliated and miserable. His words had found an echo in her sore heart, but she had not let him see how much they moved her. On the contrary, she had rebuked him. And for the first time, they had quarrelled. If you ever speak to me like that again, she had said coldly, I will not come again. And once more he had turned on her violently. I think you'd better not come again. I am but a man, after all. They parted to enemies. But the same night Arié wrote Agnes a very piteous letter asking pardon on his knees for having spoken as he had done. And his letter moved her to the heart. Her own deep misery, never for one moment did she forget Frank and Frank's treachery, made her understand the torment that Theréé was going through. For the first time she realized, was so few of her kind ever realized, that it is a mean thing to take everything and give nothing in exchange. And gradually, as her long solitary hours wore themselves away, Agnes came to believe that if she did what she now knew Theréé desired her to do, if casting the past behind her, she started a new life with him. She would not only be doing a generous thing by the man who had loved her silently and faithfully for so long, but she would also be punishing Frank, hurting him and his honor as he had hurt her in hers. And then the stars that fight in their courses for those lovers who are also poets, fought for Theréé. The day after they had quarreled, and he had written her his piteous letter of remorse, Gerald Theréé fell ill. But he was not too ill to write. And after he had been ill four days, and when Agnes was feeling very, very measurable, he wrote and told her of a wonderful vision which had been vouchsafe to him. In this vision Theréé had seen Agnes knocking at the narrow front door of the lonely flat where he lived solitary, and through the door had slipped in his angelic visitant, by her mere presence, bringing him peace, health, and the happiness he was schooling himself to believe. Must never come to him through her. The post which brought her the letter in which Therééé told his vision, brought also to Agnes Barlow a little registered parcel containing a pearl and diamond pendant from Frank. For a few moments the two lay on her knee. Then she took up the jewel and looked at it curiously. Was it with such a thing as this that her husband thought to purchase her forgiveness? If Therééé's letter had never been written, if Frank's gift had never been dispatched, it may be doubted whether Agnes would have done what we now find her doing. Hastening, that is, on her way to make Therééé's dream come true. At last she reached the little suburban station of Summerfield. One of her father's many kind messes to her each year was the gift of a season ticket to town. But today some queer instinct made her buy a ticket at the booking office instead. The booking clerk peered out at her, surprised. Then made up his mind that pretty Mrs. Barlow, she wore to-day a curiously thick veil, had a friend with her. But his long ruminating stare made her shrink and flush. Was it possible that what she was about to do was written on her face? She was glad indeed when the train steamed into the station. She got into an empty carriage, for the rush that goes on each evening Londonward from the suburbs had not yet begun. And then, to her surprise, she found that it was the thought of her husband, none of the man to whom she was going to give herself, that filled her sad, embittered heart, old memories. Memories connected with Frank. His love for her, her love for him, became insistent. She lived again, while tears forced themselves into her closed eyes. Through the culminating moment of her marriage day, a start for the honeymoon, a start made amid a crowd of laughing, cheering friends. From the little station she had just left, she remembered the delicious trimmer, which had come over her when she found herself at last alone, really alone, with her three-hour-old bridegroom. How infinitely kind and tender Frank had been to her. And then Agnes reminded herself, with tightening breath, that men like Frank Barlow are always kind, too kind, to women. Other journeys she and Frank had taken together came and mocked her, and especially the journey which had followed a month after little Francis's birth. Frank had driven with her, the nurse, and the baby to the station, but only to see them off. He had had a very important case in the courts just then, and it was out of the question that he should go with his wife to Little Hampton for the change of air, a few weeks by the sea that had been ordered by her good, careful doctor. And then at the last moment Frank had suddenly jumped into the railway carriage without a ticket and had gone along with her part of the way. She remembered the surprise of the monthly nurse, the woman's primer mark, when he had at last got out at Horsham, that Mr. Barlow was certainly the kindest husband she, the nurse, had ever seen. But these memories, now so desecrated, did not make her give up her purpose. Far from it, for in a queer way they made her think more tenderly of Gerald Ferrier, whose life had been so lonely, and who had known nothing of the simpler human sanctities and joys, and who had never, so he had told her with a kind of bitter scorn of himself, been loved by any woman whom he himself could love. In her ears there sounded Ferrier's quick, hoarsely uttered words. Do you think I should have ever said a word to you of all this? If you had gone on being happy, do you think I'd ask you to come to me, if you had any chance of being happy with him? Now, as she knew in her soul, he had spoken truly. Ferrier would never have tried to disturb her happiness with Frank. He had never so tried during those two years when they had seen so much of each other, and when Agnes had known, deep down in her heart, that he loved her, though it had suited her conscience to pretend that his love was only friendship. Read by Angelique Campbell, November 2018. Studies in Love and in Terror by Marie Bellick Lownes. The Woman from Purgatory, Part 3. The train glided into the fog-laden London Station, and very slowly Agnes Barlow stepped down out of the railway carriage. She felt oppressed by the fact that she was alone. During the last few weeks, Ferrier had always been standing on the platform, waiting to greet her, eager to hurry her into a cab, to a picture gallery, to a concert, or, of late, oftenest of all, to one of those green oasises which the great town still leaves her lovers. But now Ferrier was not here. Ferrier was ill, solitary, in the lonely rooms, which he called, home. Agnes Barlow hurried out of the station. Hammer, hammer, hammer went what she supposed was her heart. It was a curious to Agnes a new sensation, bread of the fear that she would meet some acquaintance to whom she would have to explain her presence in town. She could not help being glad that the fog was of that dense, stifling quality which makes everyone intent on his own business, rather than on that of his neighbors. Then something happened which scared Agnes. She was walking, now very slowly, out of the station. When a tall man came up to her, he took off his hat and peered insolently into her face. I think I've had the pleasure of meeting you before, he said. She stared at him with a great unreasonable fear gripping her heart. No doubt this was some business acquaintance of Frank's. I don't think so, she faltered. Oh yes, he said. Don't you remember two years ago at the Parola in Regent Street? I don't think I can be wrong. And then Agnes understood. You were making a mistake, she said breathlessly and quickened her steps. The man looked after her with a jarring smile but he made no further attempt to molest her. She was trembling, shaking with fear, disgust, and terror. It was odd, but such a thing had never happened to a pretty Agnes Barlow before. She was not often alone in London. She had never been there alone on such a foggy evening and evening which invited such approaches as those she had just repulsed. She touched a respectable-looking woman on the arm. Can you tell me the way to Floyd Street, Chelsea? she asked, her voice faltering. Why yes, Miss. It's a good step from here, but you can't mistake it. You've only got to go straight along and then ask again after you've been walking about twenty minutes. You can't mistake it. And she hurried on while Agnes tried to keep and step behind her for the slight adventure outside the station became retrospectively terrifying. She thrilled with angry fear lest that brute should still be stalking her. But when she looked over her shoulder she saw that the pavement was nearly bare of walkers. At last the broad thoroughfare narrowed to a point where four streets converged. Agnes glanced fearfully this way and that. Which of those shadowy black-coated figures hurrying past and tend on their business would direct her rightly? Within the last half hour Agnes had grown horribly afraid of men. And then, with more relief than the fact of warranted, across the narrow roadway she saw a merge between two parting waves of fog the shrouded figure of a woman leaning against a dead wall. Agnes crossed the street, but as she stepped upon to the curb suddenly there broke from her twice repeated a low involuntary cry of dread. Teresa? She cried. And then again, Teresa! Or in the shrouded figure before her she had recognized with a thrill of incredulous terror the forms and liniments of Teresa Maldo. But there came no answering cry and Agnes gave a long gasping involuntary sigh of relief as she realized that what had seemed to be her dead friend's dark glowing face was the face of a little child, a black-haired beggar child with large startled eyes wide open on a living world. The tall woman, her statuesque figure had so strangely recalled Teresa's supple, powerful form was holding up the child, propping it on the wall behind her. Still shaking with the chilled terror induced by the vision she now believed she had not seen, Agnes went up closer to the melancholy group. Even now she longed to hear the woman speak. Can you tell me the way to Floyd Street? she asked. The woman looked at her fixately. No, that I can't, she said listlessly. I'm a stranger here. And then with a passionate energy which startled Agnes. For God's sake, give me something, lady, to help me to get home. I've walked all the way from Essex. It's taken me, oh, so long with the child, though we've had a lift here and a lift there, and I haven't a penny left. I came to find my husband, but he's lost himself on purpose. A week ago, Agnes Barlow would have shaken her head and passed on. She had always held the theory, carefully inculcated by her careful parents, that it is wrong to give money to beggars in the street. But perhaps the queer illusion that she had just experienced made her remember Father Ferguson. Enough lash! she recalled a sermon of the old praise to which had shocked and disturbed his prosperous congregation. For in it, the preacher had advanced the astounding theory that it is better to give to nine imposters than to refuse to one just man. Nay, more. He had reminded his hearers of the old legend that Christ sometimes comes and the guise of a beggar to the wealthy. She took five shillings out of her purse and put them, not in the woman's hand, but in that of the little child. Thank you, said the woman, dolly. May God bless you. That was all. But Agnes went on, vaguely comforted. And now at last, helped on her way by more than one good-natured wayfarer, she reached the quiet but shabby Chelsea Street where Therriet lived. The fog had lifted towards the river, and in the lamp-light, Agnes Barlow was not long in finding a large, open door, above which was inscribed the Thomas Moore Studios. Agnes walked timorously through into the square, empty, gas-lit hull and looked round her with this taste. The place struck her as very ugly and forlorn, utterly lacking in what she had always taken to be the amenities of flat life, an obsequious porter, a lift, electric light. How strange had Therriet have told her that he lived in a building that was beautiful. Springing in bold and simple curves rose a wrought iron staircase, filling up the center of the narrow, tower-like building. Agnes knew that Therriet lived high up, somewhere near the top. She waited a moment at the foot of the staircase. She was gathering up her strength, throwing behind her everything that had meant life, happiness, and what signified so very much to such a woman as herself, personal repute. But even so, Agnes did not fault her in her purpose. She was still possessed, driven onward by a passion of jealous misery. But, though her spirit was willing, I, and more than willing, for revenge, her flesh was weak. And as she began slowly walking up the staircase, she started, nervously, at the grotesque shapes cast by her own shadow, and at the muffled sounds of her own footfalls. Halfway up the high building the gas jets burned low, and Agnes felt aggrieved. What a mean, stupid economy on the part of the owners of this strange, unnatural dwelling place. How dreadful it would be if she were to meet anyone she knew, anyone belonging to what she was already, unconsciously, teaching herself to call her old, happy life. As if in cruel answer to her fear, a door opened, and an old man, flat in a big, shabby fur coat and broad-brimmed hat came out. Agnes' heart gave a bound in her bosom. Yes, this was what she had somehow thought would happen. In the half-light, she took the old man to be an eccentric acquaintance of her father's. Mr. Willis, she whispered hoarsely. He looked at her, surprised, resentful. My name's not Willis, he said gruffly, as he passed her on his way down, and her heart became stilled. How could she have been so foolish as to take that disagreeable old man for kindly natured Mr. Willis? She was now very near the top. Only a story and a half more, and she would be there. Her steps were flagging. But a strange kind of peace had fallen on her. In a few moments she would be safe, forever, in Farrier's arms. How strange and unreal the notion seemed. And then, and then, as if fashioned by some potent incantation from the vaporous fog outside, a tall gray figure rose out of nothingness, and stood, barring the way, on the steel floor of the landing above her. Agnes clutched the iron railing, too oppressed rather than too frightened to speak. Out in the fog-laden street she had involuntarily called out the other's name. Theresa? She had cried, Theresa! But this time no word broke from her lips, for she feared that if she spoke, the other would answer. Theresa Maldow's love, the sisterly love of which Agnes had been so little worthy, had broken down the gateless barrier which stretches its dense length between the living and the dead. What she, the living woman, had not known how to do for Theresa, the dead woman, had come back to do for her. For now Agnes seemed suddenly able to measure the depth of the gulf into which she had been about to throw herself. She stared with fearful, fascinated eyes at the immobile figure of swath and gray, seer-like garments. And her gaze traveled stealthfully up to the white, passionless space, drained of all expression, saved out of watchful concern, and understanding tenderness. With a swift movement, Agnes turned round. Clinging to the iron rail, she stumbled down the stairway to the deserted hall, and with swift terror hastened steps rushed out into the street. Through the fog she plunged, not even sparing a moment to look back and up to the dimly lighted window behind which poor fairies stood. As a softer, a truer-natured woman might have done. Violently she put all thought of her lover from her, and as she hurried along with tightening breath, the instinct of self-preservation alone possessing her, she became more and more absorbed in measuring the fathomless depth of the pit in which she had so nearly fallen. Her one wish now was to get home, to get home, to get home, before Frank got back. But the fulfillment of that wish was denied her. Or as Agnes Barlow walked, crying softly as she went, in the misty darkness along the road which led from Summerfield Station to the gate of the Haven, there fell on her ear the rhythmical tramp of well-shot feet. She shrank near to the hedge in no mood to greet or to accept greeting from a neighbor. But the walker was now close to her. He struck a match. Agnes? It was Frank Barlow's voice. Shamed, eager, questioning. Is that you? I thought. I hoped you would come home by this train. And as she gave no immediate answer, as he missed, God alone knew with what relief, the prim cold accents to which his wife had accustomed him of late, he hurried forward and took her masterfully into his arms. Oh, my darling, he whispered huskily, I know I've been a beast, but I've never left off loving you. And I can't stand your coldness, Agnes. Is driving me to the devil. Forgive me, my pure angel. And Frank Barlow's pure angel did forgive him. And with a spontaneity and generous forgetfulness which he will ever remember. Nay, more. Agnes. And this touched her husband deeply. Even gave up her pleasant acquaintance with that writing fellow. Ferrier, because Ferrier, through no fault of his, was associated, in both their minds, with the terrible time each would have given so much to obliterate from the record of their otherwise cloudless married life. Section 13 of Studies in Love and in Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Farrah Iftikar. Studies in Love and in Terror by Mary Belock Lounders. Why They Married. God doeth all things well, though by what strange, solemn, and murderous contrivances. John Coxeter was sitting with his back to the engine in a first-class carriage in the Paris Bologna night train. Not only Englishmen, but Englishmen have a peculiarly definite class. That of the London civil servant was written all over his spare, still active, figure. It was late September, and the rush homewards had begun, so Coxeter, being a man of precise and careful habit, had reserved a corner seat. Then, just before the train had started, a certain Mrs Archdale, a young widowed lady with whom he was acquainted, had come up to him on the Paris platform, and to her he had given up his seat. Coxeter had willingly made the little sacrifice of his personal comfort, but he had felt annoyed when Mrs Archdale in her turn had yielded the corner place with foolish altruism to a French lad, exchanging syphorus farewells to his parents. When the train started, the boy did not give the seat back to the courteous Englishwoman, to whom it belonged, and Coxeter, more vexed by the matter than it was worth, would have liked to punch the boy's head. And yet, as he now looked straight before him, sitting upright in the carriage, which was rocking and jolting, as only a French railway carriage can rock and jolt, he realised that he himself had gained by the lad's lack of honesty. By having thus given away something which did not belong to her, Mrs Archdale was now seated, if uncomfortably hemmed in, and encompassed on each side, just opposite to Coxeter himself. Coxeter was well aware that to stare at a woman is the height of bad breeding, but unconsciously he drew a great distinction between what is good taste to do when one is being observed, and that which one does when no one can catch one doing it. Without making the slightest effort, in fact by looking straight before him, Nan Archdale fell into his direct line of vision, and he allowed his eyes to rest on her with an unwilling sense that there was nothing in the world he had rather they rested on. Her appearance pleased his fastidious rather old-fashioned taste. Mrs Archdale was wearing a long grey cloak. On her head was poised a dark hat, trimmed with mercury rings. It rested lightly on the pale golden hair, which formed so agreeable a contrast to her deep blue eyes. Coxeter did not believe in luck. The word which means so much to many men had no place in his vocabulary or even in his imagination. But still, the sudden appearance of Mrs Archdale in the great Paris station had been an agreeable surprise, one of those incidents which, just because of their unexpectedness, make a man feel not only pleased with himself, but at one with the world. Before Mrs Archdale had come up to the carriage-door at which he was standing, several things had contributed to put Coxeter in an ill-humour. It had seemed to his critical British phlegm that he was surrounded, immersed against his will, in floods of emotion. Among his fellow travellers the French element predominated heavens, how they talked, jabbered would be the better word, laughed and cried, how they hugged and embraced one another. Coxeter thanked God he was an Englishman. His feeling of bored disgust was intensified by the conduct of a long-nosed, sallow man who had put his luggage into the same carriage as that where Coxeter's seat had been reserved. Strange how the peculiar characteristics common to the Jewish race survive, whatever be the accident of nationality. This man also was saying goodbye, his wife being a dark, thin, eager-looking woman of a very common French type. Coxeter looked at them critically. He wondered, I believe, the woman was Jewish too. On the whole he thought not. She was half crying, half laughing, her hands now clasping her husband's arm, now travelling with a gesture of tenderness up to his fleshy face, while he seemed to tolerate rather than respond to her endearments and extravagant terms of affection. Adieu, mon petit-homme adore! She finally exclaimed, just as the tickets were being examined, and to Coxeter's surprise the adored one answered in a very English voice, albeit the utterance was slightly thick. There, there, that'll do, my dear girl, it's only for a fortnight after all. Coxeter felt a pang of sincere pity for the poor fellow, a cad, no doubt, but an English cad, cursed with an emotional French wife. Then his attention had been most happily diverted by the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Archdale. She had come up behind him very quietly, and he had heard her speak before actually seeing her. Mr. Coxeter, are you going back to England, or have you only come to see someone off? Not even then had Coxeter, to use a phrase which he himself would not have used, for he avoided the use of slang, given himself away. Over his lantern-shaped face, across his thin, determined mouth, they had still lingered a trace of the supercilious smile with which he had been looking around him. And, as he had helped Mrs. Archdale into the compartment, as he indicated to her the comfortable seat he had reserved for himself, not even she noted, though she was for her powers of sympathy and understanding, had divine the delicious tremor, the curious state of mingle joy and discomfort into which her sudden presence had thrown the man whom she had greeted a little, doubtfully by no means sure that he would welcome her companionship on a long journey. And indeed, in spite of the effect she produced upon him, in spite of the fact that she was the only human being who had ever had, or was ever likely to have, the power of making him feel humble, not quite satisfied with himself, Coxeter disapproved of Mrs. Archdale. At the present moment he disapproved of her rather more than usual, for if she meant to give up that corner seat, why had she not so arranged to satisfy him? Instead she was now talking to the French boy who occupied what should have been her seat. But Nan Archdale, as all her friends called her, was always like that. Coxeter never saw her, never met her at the houses to which she went simply in order that he might meet her, without wondering why she wasted so much of the time she might have spent in talking to him, and above all in listening to him, in talking and listening to other people. Four years ago, not long after their first acquaintance, he had made her an offer of marriage, impelled by something which had appeared at the time quite outside himself and his usual wise ponderate view of life. He had been relieved as well as keenly hurt when she refused him. Everything that concerned himself appeared to John Coxeter at such moment and importance that, at the time, it had seemed incredible that Nan Archdale would be able to keep to herself the peculiar honour which had befallen her, one by the way which Coxeter had never seriously thought of conferring on any other woman. But as time went on, he became aware that she had actually kept a secret which was not hers to betray, and emboldened by the knowledge that she alone knew of his humiliating bond ship, he had again, after a certain interval, written at last her, if she would marry him. Again she had refused, in a kind, impersonal little note, and this last time she had gone so far as to declare that in this manner she really knew far better than he did himself, what was good for him, and once more, something deep in his heart had said, Amen. When he thought about it, and he went on thinking about it more than was quite agreeable for his own comfort or peace of mind, Coxeter would tell himself with what he believed to be a vicarious pang of regret, that Mrs Archdale had made a sad mistake as regarded her own interest. He felt sure she was not fit to live alone, he knew she ought to be surrounded by the kind of care and protection which only a husband can properly bestow on a woman. He, Coxeter, would have known how to detach her from the unsuitable people by whom she was always surrounded. Nan Archdale, and Coxeter was much concerned that it was so, had an instinctive attraction for those poor souls who lead forlorn hopes, and of whom, they being unsuccessful in their fine endeavours, the world never hears. She also had a strange patience and tenderness for those near-duels of whom even the kindest grow weary after a time. Nan had a massive queer friend, old protégés for whom she worked unceasingly in a curious detached fashion, which was quite her own, and utterly apart from any of the myriad philanthropic societies with which the world she lived in and to which she belonged by birth, interests its prosperous and intelligent leisure. It was characteristic that Nan's liking for John Coxeter often took the form of asking him to help these queer and satisfactory people. Why, even in this last week, while he had been in Paris, he had come into close relation with one of Mrs Archdale's odd-com shorts. This time the man was an inventor, and of all unpractical and useless things he had painted and appliance for saving life at sea. Nan Archdale had given the man a note to Coxeter, and it was characteristic of the latter that, while resenting what Mrs Archdale had done, he had been at some pains when in Paris to see the man in question. The invention, as Coxeter had of course known to be the case, was a ridiculous affair, but for Nan's sake he had agreed to submit it to the admiralty expert, whose business it is to consider and pronounce on such futile things. The queer little model, which its maker believed would in time supersede the lifebelts, now carried on every busheship, had but one merit. It was small and portable. At the present moment it lay curled up, looking at a cross between a serpent's cast skin and a child's bent balloon in Coxeter's portmanteau. Even while he had accepted the parcel with a coolly civil word of thanks, he had mentally composed the letter with which he would ultimately dash the poor inventor's hope. Tonight, however, sitting opposite to her, he felt glad that he had been to see the man, and he looked forward to telling her about it. Scarcely consciously to himself, it always made Coxeter glad to feel that he had given Nan pleasure, even pleasure of which he disapproved. And yet how widely apart were these two people's sympathies and interests? Putting Nan aside, John Coxeter was only concerned with two things in his life—his work at the treasury and himself. And people only interested him in relation to these two major problems of existence. Nan Archdale was a citizen of the world, a free woman of that dear kingdom of romance which still contains so many fragrant biways and sunny oases for those who have the will to find them. But for her freedom of this kingdom she would have been a very sad woman, oppressed by the griefs and sorrows of that other world to which she also belonged. For Nan's human circle was ever widening, and in her strange heart there seemed always room for those whom others rejected and despised. She had the power no human being had ever had—that of making John Coxeter jealous. This was the harder to bear in as much as he was well aware that jealousy is a very ridiculous human failing, and one with which he had no sympathy or understanding when it affected—as it sometimes did—his acquaintances and colleagues. Fortunately for himself he was not retrospectively jealous—jealous, that is, of the dead man of whom certain people belonged to his and Nan's circle, sometimes spoke of as poor Jim Archdale. Coxeter knew vaguely that Archdale had been a bad lot, though never actually unkind to his wife. Nay, more during the short time their married life had lasted, Archdale, it seemed, had to a certain extent reformed. Although he was unconscious of it, John Coxeter was a very material human being, and this no doubt was why this woman had so compelling an attraction for him, for Nan Archdale appeared to be all spirit, and that in spite of her eager sympathetic concern in the lives which circled about hers. And yet? Yet there was certainly a strong unspoken link between them, this man and woman, which so little in common, the one with the other. They met often, if only because they both lived in Marleybone, that most conventional quarter of old Georgian London, she in Rimpole Street, he in a flat in Wigmore Street. She always was glad to see him, and seemed a little sorry when he left her. Coxeter was one of the rare human beings to whom Nan ever spoke of herself, and of her own concerns. But, in spite of that curious kindness, she did not do what so many people who knew John Coxeter instinctively did, ask his advice, and, what was, of course, more seldom done, take it. In fact, he had sometimes angrily told himself that Nan attached no weight to his opinion, and as time had gone on, he had almost given up offering her unsought advice. John Coxeter attached great importance to health. He realised that a perfect physical condition is a great possession, and he took considerable pains to keep himself what he called fit. Now Mrs. Archdill was recklessly imprudent concerning her health, the health that is, which was of so great a value to him, her friend. She took her meals at odd times. She did not seem to mind, hardly to know, what she ate and drank. Of the many strange things Coxeter had known her to do, by far the strangest and one which she could scarcely think of without an inward tremor, had happened only a few months ago. Nan had been with an ailing friend, and the ailing friend's only son in the Highlands and this friend, a foolish woman, when recalling the matter Coxeter never admitted to call this lady a foolish woman, on sending her boy back to school had given him what had thought to be a dose of medicine out of the wrong bottle, a bottle marked poison. Nothing could be done, for the boy had started on his long railway journey south before the mistake had been discovered, and even Coxeter, when hearing the story told, had realised that had he been there he would have been sorry, really sorry for the foolish mother. But Nan's sympathy, and on this point Coxeter always dwelt with a special sense of injury, had taken a practical shape. She had poured out a similar dose from the bottle marked poison, and had calmly drunk it, observing as she did so. I don't believe it is poison in the real sense of the word, but at any rate we shall soon be able to find out exactly what is happening to Dick. Nothing or at least nothing but a bad headache had followed, and so far had Nan been justified of her folly. But Coxeter it was terrible to think of what might have happened, and he had not shared in any degree the mingled amusement and admiration which the story is told afterwards by the culpable mother had drawn forth. In fact so deeply had he felt about it, that he had not trusted himself to speak of the matter to Mrs Archdale. But Mrs Archdale was not only reckless of her health, she was also reckless, perhaps uncaring would be the true word, of something which John Coxeter supposed every nice woman to value even more than her health or appearance, that is the curiously intangible and yet so easily human best termed reputation. To John Coxeter the women of his own class, if worthy that is of consideration and respect, went clad in a delicate robe of ermine, and the thought that this ermine should have even a shade cast on its fairness was most repugnant to him. Now Nan Archdale was not as careful in this matter of keeping her ermine unspoiled and delicately white as she ought to have been, and this was stranger in as much as even Coxeter realised that there was about his friend a uner-like quality which made her unafraid, because unsuspecting, of evil. Another of the cardinal points of Coxeter's carefully thought out philosophy of life was that in this world no woman can touch pitch without being defiled, and yet on one occasion at least, the woman who now sat opposite to him had proved the falsity of this view. Nan Archdale, apparently indifferent to the opinion of those who wished her well, had allowed herself to be closely associated with one of those unfortunate members of her own sex, who, at certain intervals in the history of the civilised world, become heroines of a drama of which each act takes place in the law courts. Of these dramas, every whispered word, every piece of business, to pursue the analogy to its logical end, is overheard and visualised, not by thousands, but by millions, in fact by all those of an age to read a newspaper. Had the woman in the case been Mrs. Archdale's sister, Coxeter with a groan would have admitted that she owed her a duty, though a duty which she would feign have had her shirk or rather delegate to another. But this woman was no sister, not even a friend, simply an old acquaintance known to Nan, tis true over many years. Nan had done what she had done, had taken her in and shouted her, going to the court with her every day, simply because this seemed absolutely no one else willing to do it. When he had first heard of what Mrs. Archdale was undertaking to do, Coxeter had been so dismayed that he had felt called upon to expostulate with her. Very few words had passed between them. Is it possible, he had asked, that you think her innocent, that you believe her own story? To this Mrs. Archdale had answered with some distress, I don't know, I haven't thought about it. As she says she is, I hope she is, if she's not, I'd rather not know it. It had been a confused utterance, and somehow she had made him feel sorry that he had said anything. Afterwards, to his surprise and unwilling relief, he discovered that Mrs. Archdale had not suffered in reputation as he had expected her to do, but it made him feel more than ever that she needed a strong, wise man to take care of her, and to keep her out of the mischief into which her unfortunate good nature, that was the way Coxeter phrased it to her, was so apt to lead her. It was just after this incident that he had again asked her to marry him, and that she had again refused him. But it was since then that he had become really her friend. At last Mrs. Archdale turned away, or else the French boy had come to an end of his eloquence. Perhaps she would now lean a little forward and speak to him, the friend whom she had not seen for some weeks, and whom she had seen so sincerely glad to see half an hour ago. But no, she remained silent, her face full of thought. Coxeter leaned back. As overall he never read in a train, for he was aware that it is injurious to the eyesight to do so. But tonight he suddenly told himself that after all he might just as well look at the English paper he had bought at the station. He might at least see what sort of crossing they were going to have tonight. Not that he minded for himself. He was a good sailor, and always stayed on deck whatever the weather. But he hoped it would be smooth for Mrs. Archdale's sake. It was so unpleasant for a lady to have a rough passage. Again, before opening the paper he glanced across at her. She did not look strong. That air of delicacy combined, as it was with perfect health, for Mrs. Archdale was never ill. It was one of the things that made her attractive to John Coxeter. When he was with a woman he liked to feel that he was taking care of her, and that she was more or less dependent on his good offices. Somehow or other he always felt this concerning Nan Archdale, and that even when she was doing something of which he disapproved, and which he would feign have prevented her doing. Coxeter turned round so that the light should fall on the page at which he had opened his newspaper, which, it need hardly be said, was the morning post. Presently they came to him, the murmuring of two voices, Mrs. Archdale's clear low utterances, and another's guttural and full. Ah, then he had been right. The fellow sitting there on Nan's other side was a Jew, probably something financial connected with the stock exchange. Coxeter of the Treasury looked at the man he talked to be a financier, with considerable contempt. Coxeter prided himself on his knowledge of human beings, or rather of men, but even his self-satisfaction did not go so far as to make him suppose that he entirely understood women. There had been a time when he had thought so. That was long ago. He began reading his newspaper. There was a most interesting article on education. After having glanced at this, he studied more carefully various little items of social news, which reminded him that he had been away from London for some weeks. Then, as he read on, the conversation between Nan Archdale and the man next to her became more audible to him. All the other people in the carriage were French, and so first one, and then the other, window had been closed. His ears had grown accustomed to the muffled thundering sounds caused by the train, and gradually he became aware that Nan Archdale was receiving some singular confidences from the man with whom she was now speaking. The fellow was actually unrolling before her the whole of his not very interesting life, and by degrees, Coxeter began rather to overhear than to listen consciously of what was being said. The Jew, though English by birth, now lived in France. As a young man, he had failed in business in London, and then he had made a fresh start abroad, apparently impelled there too by his great affection for his mother. The Jewish race, so Coxeter reminded himself, are admirable in every relation of private life, and it was apparently in order that his mother might not have to alter her style of living that the person on whom Mrs. Archdale was now fixing her attention had finally accepted a post in a Paris house of business. No, not financial. Something connected me to trade. Coxeter gathered that the speaker had at last saved enough money to make a start for himself, and that now he was very prosperous. He spoke of what he had done with legitimate pride, and when describing the struggle he had gone through, the fellow used a very odd expression. It wasn't all a jam, he said. Now he was in a big way of business, going over to London every three months, partly in connection with his work, partly to see his old mother. Behind his newspaper, Coxeter told himself that it was amazing any human being should tell so much of his private concerns to a stranger. Even more amazing was in that a refined rather peculiar woman like Nan Archdale should care to listen to such a commonplace story. But listening, she was, saying the word here and there, asking two very quaint, practical questions concerning the sweet meat trade. Why, even Coxeter became interested in spite of himself, for the Jew was an intelligent man, and as he talked on, Coxeter learned with surprise that there is a romantic and exciting side even to making sweets. What a pity it is, he heard Nan say at last in her low, even voice, that you can't now come back to England and settle down there. Surely it would make your mother much happier, and you don't seem to like Paris very much. That is true, said the man, but well, unluckily there's an obstacle to my doing that. Coxeter looks up from his paper. The stranger's face had become troubled, preoccupied, and his eyes were fixed, or so Coxeter fancied them to be, on Nan Archdale's left hand. The slender bear hand on which the only ring was her wedding ring. Coxeter once more returned to his paper, but for some minutes he made no attempt to follow the dancing lines of print. I trust you won't be offended if I ask whether you are, or are not, a married lady. The sweet meat man's voice had a curious note of shamed interrogation, threading itself through the words. Coxeter felt surprised and rather shocked. This was what came of allowing oneself to become familiar with an underbred stranger. But Nan had apparently not so taken the impertinent question for, I am a widow, Coxeter heard her answer gently, in a voice that had no touch of offence in it, and then, after a few moments, staring with frowning eyes at the spread out sheet newspaper before him, Coxeter, with increasing distaste and revolt, became aware that Mrs Archdale was now receiving very untoward confidences, confidences which Coxeter had always imagined were never made safe under the unspoken seal of secrecy by one man to another. This objectionable stranger was telling Nan Archdale the story of the woman who had seen him off at the station and whose absurd phrase, adieu mon petit homme adore, had rung so unpleasantly in his Coxeter's ears. The eavesdropper was well aware that such stories are among the everyday occurrences of life, but his knowledge was largely theoretical. John Coxeter was not the sort of man to whom other men are willing to confide their shame, sorrows or even successes in a field of which the aftermath is generally bitter. In as far as such a tale can be told with decent ambiguity, it was so told by this man of whose refinement Coxeter had formed so poor an opinion, but still, the fact that he was telling it remained, and it was a fact which, to such a man as Coxeter, constituted an outrage on the decencies of life. Mrs Archdale, by her foolish good nature, had placed herself in such a position as to be consulted in a case of conscience concerning a Jewish treatment and his lighter love, and now the man was debating with her, as with himself, as to whether he should marry this woman, as to whether he should force on his respectable English mother a French torturing law of unmentionable atescendence. Coxeter gathered that the liaison had lasted ten years, and that it had begun, in fact, very soon after the man had first come to Paris. In addition to his feeling of wrath that none Archdale should become cognizant of so sordid a tale, there was associated a feeling of shame that he, Coxeter, had overheard what it had not been meant that he should hear. Perforce the story went on to its melancholy and inconclusive end, and then suddenly Coxeter became possessed with a desire to see none Archdale's face. He glanced across at her. To his surprise her face was expressionless, but her left hand was no longer lying on her knee. It was supporting her chin, and she was looking straight before her. I suppose, she said at last, that you have made a proper provision for your your friend, I mean in case of your death. I hope you have so arranged matters that if anything should happen to you, this poor woman who loves you would not have to go back to the kind of life from which you talk to her. Even Coxeter did mind that that man had not found it easy to say this thing. Why no, I haven't done anything of that sort. I never thought of doing it. She's always been a delicate party. I am as strong as a horse. Still, still, life's very uncertain. Mrs Archdale was now looking straight into the face of the stranger in whom she was thrusting unsought advice. She has no claim on me, none at all. The man spoke defensively. I don't think she'd expect anything of that sort. She's had a very good time with me. After all, I haven't treated her badly. I am sure you haven't, none spoke very gently. I am sure you have always been kind to her, but if I may use the simile you used just now, life, even to the happiest, the most sheltered of women, isn't all jammed. The man looked at her with a doubting, shame-faced glance. I expect your right. He said abruptly, I ought to have thought of it. I'll make my will when I'm in England this time. I ought to have done so before. Suddenly, Coxeter leaned forward. He felt the time had come when he really must put an end to this most unseemly conversation. Mrs Archdale. He spoke loudly, insistently. She looked up, startled at the sharpness of the tone, and the man next to her, whose eyes had been fixed on her face, with so moved and doubting a look, sat back. I want you to tell that I've seen your inventor and that I've promised to put his invention before the right quarter, the admiralty. In a moment, Nan was all eagerness. It really is a very wonderful thing. She said, I'm so grateful, Mr Coxeter. Did you go and see it tried? I did. Last time I was in Paris. The man talked me to a swimming-bath on the scene. Such an odd place, and there he tested it before me. I was really very much impressed. I do hope you will say a word for it. I am sure they would value your opinion. Coxeter looked at her rather grimly. No, I didn't see it tested. To think that she should have wasted even hour of her time in such a foolish manner and in such a queer place, too. I didn't see the use of doing so, though, of course, the man was very anxious I should. I'm afraid the thing's no good. How could it be? He smiled superciliously, and he saw her reddened. How unfair that is! she exclaimed. How can you possibly tell whether it's no good if you haven't seen it tried? No, I have seen the thing tried. There was such a tone of protest in her voice that Coxeter felt called upon to defend himself. I dare say the thing's all right in theory. He said quickly, and I believe what he says about the ordinary life-bouts. It's quite true. I mean that they drown more people than they save, but that's only because people don't know how to put them on. This thing's a toy, not practical at all. He spoke more irritably than he generally allowed himself to speak, for he could see that the Jews listened to all that they were saying. All at once Mrs Archdale actually included the sweet meat stranger in their conversation, and Coxeter at last found himself at her request, most unwillingly taking the absurd model out of his bag. Of course, you've got to imagine this is in a rough sea. He said so quickly, playing the deviled advocate, and not in a fresh water-river bath. Well, I wouldn't mind trying it in a rough sea, Mr Coxeter. Nan smiled as she spoke. Coxeter wondered if she was really serious. Sometimes he suspected that Mrs Archdale was making fun of him, but that surely was impossible.