Three men were sitting at dinner in two different places, each thinking of the same subject, though with hardly the same feelings. The subject was the engagement of Rosamund Slade to Maurice Hopton; and the three men were Sir George Dawson, Bart., General Henry Hopton, C.B., and Robert Blundell.

The feelings of Sir George Dawson, as he sat in the comfortable dining-room of Dawsfield Park, Sussex, enjoying the pleasures of the table, to which he was by no means indifferent, were those of complacency. For some time past his conscience, usually a robust organ, had given him signs that it was not at its ease. The cause of its disorder was the letter that Rose had written, which he had read with annoyance and finally put away in his desk as a matter to be attended to when he should have more humour to deal with it. It had spread before him dire possibilities. He had pictured himself, as he read it for the third time, being forced to disturb all his habits by the hunting up of a new home for his ward. Worse still--but this was almost too horrible to think of--he had seen himself impelled by public opinion to endure the society of a girl in his orderly home, a girl who would certainly turn the house topsy-turvy and unhinge the snug machinery of the establishment; his forehead had grown moist at the idea. The letter had lain unanswered for so long that, one day, coming across it among his papers, it burst upon him with a fresh horror, and he determined that, before the week was out, he would concoct some sort of reply.

While he was in this state of mind, a distant neighbour, General Hopton, sent to ask him for a business interview, with the request that it might take place that afternoon. This warrior possessed the best pheasant-shooting for miles around, and was, though a new-comer to the county, a man to be propitiated in consequence; and Sir George Dawson was glad to be able to write him an obliging reply. When he arrived and revealed his business, his astonished host felt as though an angel from heaven had come down to loose him from his difficulties. General Hopton’s errand was undertaken, at his nephew Maurice’s request, to ask consent of Rosamund’s guardian to their marriage.

General Hopton was not calculated to remind the disinterested eye of an angel, for he was shaped like a jargonelle pear and had a disturbing complexion; but, whatever his appearance, Sir George would have had the same feelings. He asked a few questions, for form’s sake, about Maurice’s character, and being informed by his guest--who knew nothing about his nephew--that he was “a very decent young fellow,” gave his consent with outward condescension and inward thankfulness. The General was easily persuaded to stay the night, and a wire was sent for his servant and his clothes. Then the two old hypocrites sat down to a comfortable meal together--one delighted at having rid himself of an inconvenient responsibility; and the other at having provided, at somebody else’s expense, for one of the most impecunious members of his own family.

Meanwhile, poor Blundell, as he sat in his hotel hundreds of miles away, dining alone at a little round table, felt very disconsolate. He had hardly realised until now how very much he loved this crude girl, with her mixture of timidity and sense, shyness and expansion. He loved her wistful, changing eyes, her red, sensitive mouth, her quick variations of colour. He loved her as a strong man loves a weak woman; and he longed for the right to fill her life with happiness and see her receptive nature expand in the sunshine. He could not bear to think of her as Hopton’s wife, and to the bitterness of his disappointment were added dislike and distrust of the man who had got what he wanted so badly. He almost wished for a return of the days when might was right, and people could break each other’s heads openly and in comfort. How he would have enjoyed settling with Maurice! He did not for one moment believe that he would be good to Rosamund--that was the worst of it.

As he sat at his solitary dinner he congratulated himself that nothing need keep him in Venice, or prevent his starting with Lena for the Tyrol. Only one thing he had left undone, and that would serve him well as an occupation for this evening. There was a little view in a picturesque street that Lena Wylde had always admired, more especially when the moon was up, and he, Robert, had said he would make her a small sketch of the place. To-night the moon would be at her best, and he resolved to go out and do the little drawing; he was very glad of the diversion, for time hung heavy on his hands. He took some drawing-things out of his portmanteau, and strolled out just as the water was beginning to break out in silver ripples and the shadows to deepen into absolute blackness.

Meanwhile, Rosamund had returned to Lena’s apartment for dinner.

“You don’t mind this,” she said, pointing to her morning dress, as they sat down to the table with its shaded lamps and bouquets of late-blooming tulips. “I shall walk home. M--Maurice is coming to fetch me.”

It was hardly an exhilarating meal; they spoke little, and, when they did, it was with that affected cheerfulness and spasmodic interest in their subjects which is more embarrassing than the most prolonged silence.

The girl’s heart smote her as she observed the pain in her companion’s expression, and, at the same time, she felt a sharp twinge of self-pity. Nothing could go well with her, she told herself. Whatever she did, some one appeared to resent it. She had other feelings, too, though she hardly understood them, and the words spoken by Mrs. Wylde in error an hour before rose up and made her heart beat. Poor Rosamund, it was an odd frame of mind for a bride-elect! With other young women she had known, courtship and engagement had meant good-will and good wishes, but she, apparently, was to know none of these things. It was true that, after the bare consent and formal hopes for her welfare expressed by Mrs. Molesworth, she had spent a pleasant hour with her fiancé; he had spoken charmingly, painting in attractive colours the life which he would make for her, and she had seen before her the beginning of a new existence--an existence of love and trust and companionship. It had all seemed so happy, so full of promise, like a peaceful landscape seen from a dreary upland; and her starved and weary soul yearned towards it. But a blight had crept up; she felt chilled and spiritless, and, though she wanted to say a good deal to Lena, she had not the heart to begin.

Dinner came to an end at last; the servant put a rug and a couple of cushioned chairs on the balcony overhanging the canal, and they went out together, as they had often done, to enjoy the night air and listen to the musicians, who, in their belanterned boat, had taken up their nightly position in front of an hotel a little way off. It was dark, for the moon at this time was late in rising; and it was not easy to tell what was shadow and what substance, as they looked across at the opposite buildings, with their dead windows and unlighted arches. The house they were in stood at the corner of a small canal leading from the great main waterway in the heart of the town. Some one opposite was throwing an electric searchlight across the houses and palaces for the edification of the tourist world. It threw up all the most admired pieces of architecture in strong relief, and defined sharply their outlines and traceries. Rose had seen it every night and the vulgar glare jarred upon her. The little side canal was so black and silent that it fascinated her; the dimness, the mystery, and the quiet gave her a sensation of rest. She drew her chair into a place from which she could see some way into the narrow vista and turn her eyes from the blatant white light.

“Dear, I am afraid you think me most unkind,” said Lena presently, from her red cushions.

“I know you don’t mean to be so,” replied Rosamund; “but I am dreadfully, dreadfully disappointed. Troubles never end for me. If I could only get peace somewhere--no matter where--I shouldn’t care what happened to me. Just a little affection, ever so little, and, above all, peace, and I should be so thankful and contented! It doesn’t seem very much to want.”

“It doesn’t, but it is, all the same,” said Lena, “for peace is the hardest thing in the world to get.”

“But you have it,” said Rose.

“I have, thank Heaven! but I am one of the very few people who think themselves extraordinarily lucky and never cease wondering at their own good fortune. All I long for now is that you should have it too.”

“And you’re afraid I shan’t. Is that it?” said Rose timidly.

“I should be a false friend if I were not to answer honestly. Oh, Rose! it is hard to seem so brutal and to say such things, just when you most need sympathy; but, dear, dear Rose, I would do anything to see you free from this man. He’s not straight, and he’s not true. I never yet met a man who had a good word for him.”

Rose sat silent, her breath coming quick.

“Can’t you stop it before it is too late?” cried Lena. “Oh, think!--think! Wait a little--put it off--anything. You don’t love him, Rose--I know you don’t!”

Tears of despair, disappointment, and mortification were gathering in the girl’s eyes. She got up, and leaned over the balcony, looking down at the little, dark canal.

Lena sat still in her place; she had never been in such a puzzling position before. Here was Rosamund, standing at the most vitally important turning-point at which a woman can stand, not knowing what to do with her life. Torn this way and that, worn out by the irritations of a daily existence in which there was nothing but uncongeniality; exasperated, driven to extremity by the worry of past years, and flying for refuge to what must only plunge her into yet more irrevocable troubles. And real, true love was standing by her, if she only knew it. She would have given worlds to tell her all. She turned it over and over in her mind as she sat staring up at the blue-black sky. Could she, ought she, to speak out and betray Robert’s confidence?

She rose, and stood beside Rosamund. Down below, in the little canal, a boat was floating right under the balcony. It was a _bona-fide_ boat, not a gondola, with two people in it--a man and a woman. The man had shipped his oars and was resting by the woman in the stern. She wore a black lace mantilla, and a dark cloak was slipping from her shoulders; a diamond glittered as she put out her hand to draw it up. The two were sitting close together in the shade without exchanging a word.

All at once the man leaned over and kissed the woman--slowly, passionately.

“Tourists on their honeymoon,” was Lena’s mental comment, and she wondered, as she had often done, at the disregard of publicity shown by the species, though, in truth, the place chosen by the pair was solitary enough, with its dead walls, unbroken except by the corner balcony on which the two friends were standing. As it was immediately above their heads the lovers had, presumably, not noticed it.

Rosamund looked on mechanically; at another time the episode might have amused her; but she was in scant humour to be amused, and love and lovers were eminently distasteful to her just now. Of the former she was likely to know little, if Lena’s words were true. It was a bitter prospect, and she feared to go forward and yet had not the courage to go back; this rather startling incident had broken the train of her thought. It was followed by a splash, and she looked again to see what had happened, almost expecting that the demonstrative conduct of the unknown pair had been their undoing. But it was only one of the oars that had fallen into the water, and, as it floated away, the man was stretching over the side to recover it. He pushed off from the wall, and the boat ran into the middle of the canal.

At this moment the searchlight laid its great arm across the houses opposite, falling straight on the little craft. Rosamund seized her friend’s shoulder and clung to it, white and speechless. The man was Maurice Hopton! His companion drew her mantilla across her face as the light struck it, but not before Lena had had time to recognise, in the heroine of this episode, Madame de la Trappe.

Mrs. Wylde had not reached the age when saying “I told you so” to the mistakes of younger people compensate one for being no longer able to commit them oneself. She made no comment; while Rose, hardly knowing what she was doing, went back into the sitting-room and sank down on a chair, covering her face with her hands. Humiliation and anger strove within the girl’s breast; she was sick at heart, and worn out with the excitement of the day, and the tears she was generally so prone to shed would not come to her relief. Looking up, she met Lena’s brilliant eyes fixed upon her in the lamplight.

“Tell me what I am to do,” she said, stretching out her hands like a blind person.

“There’s only one thing to do,” said Lena, leaning across the table and speaking emphatically: “break with him as soon as ever you can. You have to end all this at once. Here--here is the inkstand,” she pushed it towards her. “I will bring you paper and envelopes.”

The sight of these practical articles in front of her brought Rosamund to herself.

“Stop!” she exclaimed. “How can I write? He is coming here to-night to walk home with me. It is useless writing. He won’t get it till I’ve seen him.”

“But I will send it to his house now, at once,” urged Lena--“the very minute you have written it. You don’t dream of going on with this, Rose, surely? You can’t! You mustn’t!”

“Oh, no,” she replied wearily. “I know that quite well. But give me a little time, Mrs. Wylde.”

Lena saw that her own zeal was taking her too far. She had been too violently stirred up by the sight they had seen together to allow for the shock to Rosamund’s nerves. It had illustrated what Robert had said as appropriately as a picture illustrates the story in a book.

“Forgive me,” she said gently. “I don’t mean to bully you.”

“If I were to write now,” continued the girl quietly, “and to send the letter, he might not go back to his rooms before coming here, and I should not know whether he had received it or not. No; I will wait till he comes, and tell him myself, right out. I will give no reason but that, on thinking it over afresh, I do not believe we shall suit each other. That’s quite true. If he insists on my keeping my engagement, or tries to force me into it, I shall say plainly what I have seen. How could he--how could he! On the very day after our engagement!”

An angry light grew in her eyes and flamed up, as the scene in the canal rose afresh in her mind. Lena had never seen this side of her before, and it was something of a revelation; she wondered at her friend’s courage in facing the disagreeable business before her; and it struck her that when timid people are driven into a corner they often out-Herod Herod with their boldness. Sitting on the table beside Rose, she told her in plain words all she had heard of Madame de la Trappe, and the interpretation of the episode in the dark water-way.

Before they had finished talking, the hands of the clock pointed to ten, and the maid came in to say that a gentleman was waiting below.

In the innocence of his heart, Hopton stopped before the main doorway leading to Mrs. Wylde’s house; he had never been in it in his life, and, until this evening, had not even known where she lived. Backs of houses on the Grand Canal open upon such unexpected streets, and are approached by such turnings and twistings, that he had not the vaguest idea, while waiting at the door, that he was barely fifty yards from the little canal with its blind walls. Had he been enlightened, he would possibly have worn a less complacent face.

He hit joyously with his stick at a vagrant cat which slunk by him and disappeared into the arch of the doorway. The moon was getting up, and, over the roofs above, a soft haze indicated her whereabouts in the sky. Presently a shadow came between him and the glitter, and the dark figure of Rosamund advanced over the wet pavement.

“Am I late?” he said, fancying he observed a slight displeasure on her face. “I didn’t mean to be.”

“No,” she replied indifferently.

“Then, mayn’t we have ever such a little walk in this lovely moonlight before I take you home?” he asked, with almost pathetic earnestness.

“No, thanks,” said Rosamund. “I want to get back as soon as possible.”

The words did not sound inviting, but he took her hand and drew it under his arm. She pulled it back instantly.

“Rosamund, my dearest!” exclaimed the immensely surprised Maurice, “what is the matter?”

Her heart beat so violently that she could hardly breathe; but, with all the equanimity she could muster, she looked straight at him.

“I cannot and will not marry you,” she said.

He stood perfectly petrified.

Rose hurried on, her mind, now that she had spoken, containing but one idea, and that was how to reach the Hôtel d’Angleterre as soon as possible.

“Not marry me?” he exclaimed, in a dazed way, as he followed her.

“I could never be happy with you,” she said breathlessly. “We do not suit each other a bit; I see it now plainly. Do not say any more, Mr. Hopton. I am so sorry, I am _so_ ashamed of my broken word; but I will not be your wife--no, never.”

Hopton wondered whether he were dreaming.

“But why?--why?” he repeated again.

“Because I know that we are quite unsuited,” said Rose. “I am certain of it--quite certain; and I do not love you. Please listen to me. I do not love you--do you understand?”

“But, Rose, my dearest love,” he urged, “you don’t know what you are saying.”

“I do,” she said vehemently; “I know very well.”

“Listen, dear,” he said, coming closer. “I will soon change all that. I will _make_ you love me; indeed I will. How can you doubt that for a moment? I can never love any one but you. I have never wasted a thought upon any other woman--I swear it solemnly!”

Perhaps some memory from the last hour was on his conscience, accusing him.

“Hush! hush!” cried the girl, in horror. “How can you tell such untruths? Oh, it’s horrible to hear you!”

“They are not untruths,” persisted he, “but honest facts. Why will you not believe me?”

“Because I know,” said Rosamund faintly.

Then a suspicion broke in upon the young man, and with it a perfect wave of rage; for he saw that the castle that he had built was crumbling to pieces.

“It’s that vile woman!” he cried. “She has been telling you lies about me. I hated her from the very first moment I saw her!”

Rose turned her face towards him. Her desire to get home was, for the moment, forgotten, so anxious was she to bring down the whole weight of her newly acquired knowledge, and to punish the man she now hated for his words about the woman who was her friend.

“No, it isn’t Mrs. Wylde,” she said. “I’ll tell you what it is. I was standing on her balcony an hour ago. Do you know that the Calle della Madalena is right underneath? You were there in a boat with--a lady. I saw you; I couldn’t help it. I had no idea it was you. I saw--everything.”

Maurice was so much taken aback that he was almost speechless, but he collected his wits as soon as he could.

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed; “it’s perfectly impossible. I have been dining at the Café San Moise, and I never left the place till I came for you. You chose to fancy that some one you saw in the darkness had a resemblance to me, I suppose. I am flattered, I must say, by your confidence.”

He had forgotten the searchlight.

“It wasn’t dark,” said the girl simply; “there was the electric light.”

There was a silence as they walked along. Even science had lent a hand to betray the unlucky young man. He made a last struggle.

“And so you will give me up without a word, because you saw me with a lady you do not know anything about? You don’t know whether she is related to me or not! You don’t even know her name! It surprises me, for I had no idea you had one of those minds to which the most innocent things seem guilty.”

“I do know her name,” said the girl, in a tone of disgust, “and it’s useless for you to go on talking like that. Do stop; I will not change my mind for anything you may say or do. Please understand.”

“Is that your last word?” asked Hopton loudly, the blood running up to his pale face.

“Yes,” she said.

He stopped dead.

“Good night,” he said, between his clenched teeth, as he turned away.

They had reached a part of the street brilliantly lit by the risen moon, and were standing by a corner over which a projecting roof threw a deep shade on the wall beside them; they themselves stood as though cut out in paper, two sharp, black figures with ungainly shadows.

“But you must come with me as far as the hotel,” exclaimed Rose, bewildered by his action, and feeling her courage ebbing in the glare of the empty black and white street.

He paid no heed to her. A sudden shout of loud laughter rose from the Piazza, where some convivial spirits were still haunting one of the cafés.

Rosamund would have to cross it to reach home, and the sound made her heart sink. She sprang a few steps after him.

“You will not leave me here alone?” she cried, laying an imploring hand on his sleeve, as the vulgar laugh rang out again, this time much nearer.

Maurice Hopton was a cad at heart. He did not care what became of the girl; she had defeated and humiliated him. He hated every one.

He shook her roughly off, so roughly that she missed her footing and staggered against the wall.

“You can go home by yourself!” he cried, completely losing all self-control. “_I’m_ not going to take you!”

At this moment the shadow under the projecting roof seemed to come to life. There was an exclamation, a rush, a shriek from Rosamund and a grasp upon Hopton which appeared to him to be choking the very life out of him.

It was no wonder that he thought this, for he wore a rather tight collar, and a great part of Blundell’s substantial hand was forced between it and the back of his neck. It was difficult to speak, and, when he tried to do so, the hand gave a twist that almost strangled him. With a final shake, the thought of which rejoiced him for many a day after, Blundell flung him from him as far as he could.

“You brute!” he exclaimed, as Hopton rolled hatless into the shadow--“you infernal brute!”

Then, with an unconscious formality that was almost comic in the midst of this violent scene, he held out his arm to Rose.

“Come,” he said, “I will take you home.”