The Ordeal | Page 3

the lady's methods and the careless flout of the
opinion of the sober, decorous world were not indicia of worthy traits;
but he was of sensitive fibre, and tingled and winced with the
consciousness of the cheap gibe and the finger of scorn. He often said
to himself then, however, as now to the friend of his inmost thought, "I
would not be bound to a woman capable of such treachery for----"
Words failed him, inadequate, though he spoke calmly. His face had
resumed its habitual warm pallor. His clear-cut features, something too
sharply defined for absolute regularity, with the unassertive effect of
his straight auburn hair, his deliberate, contemplative glance, his
reserved, high-bred look, the quiet decorum of his manner, were not
suggestive of the tumult of his inner consciousness, and the
unresponsiveness of his aspect baffled Briscoe. With some inapposite,
impulsive warmth he protested: "But she has had bitter cause for
repentance, Julian. Royston was a brute. The only decent thing he ever
did was dying! She has been an awfully unhappy woman. I know you
will be sorry for that."
"Neither glad nor sorry. She is nothing to me. Not because she dealt me
a blow after a very unfair fashion, but because she is nothing in herself
that I could really care for. She has no delicate sensibilities, no fine
perceptions; she is incapable of constancy. Don't you understand? She
has no capacity to feel."
Briscoe had a look of extenuating distress--a sentiment of loyalty to his
fair guest. "Oh, well, now, she is devoted to her child--a most loving
mother."
"Certainly, she may grow in grace--let us hope that she will! And now
suppose we talk a little about that wonderful magazine shot-gun you
have so often offered to lend me. This is my chance to prove its
values--the only time in the last five years that I could spare a week
from the office."
He rose and turned with his easy, lithe grace towards the gun-rack, but
Briscoe sat still in pondering dismay. For it was obvious that Julian
Bayne had no intention of soon relaxing the tension of the situation by

the elimination of the presence of the jilted lover. Pride, indeed,
forbade his flight. His self-respect clamored for recognition. There was
no cause for humiliation in his consciousness, and he could not consent
to abase himself before the untoward and discordant facts. He did not
disguise from himself, however, that, if he might have chosen earlier,
he would have avoided the ordeal of the meeting, from which he shrank
in anticipation. Already he was poignantly conscious of the heavy
draughts it made on his composure, and he raged inwardly to note how
his fingers trembled as he stood before the rack of guns, now and again
a weapon in his hands, feigning an interest in examining the
construction first of one and then of another.
The entire place suggested a devotion to sport and whole-souled
hospitality. The vast spread of the autumnal landscape, in wonderful
clarity and depth of tint, was visible through the large, open front doors.
There was an effort to maintain in this apartment the aspect in some
sort of a lodge in the wilderness; the splendid antlers over the
mantel-piece, beneath which, in a deep stone chimney-place, a fire of
logs smouldered; the golden eagle, triumph of taxidermy, poising his
wings full-spread above the landing of the somewhat massive staircase;
the rack of weapons--rifles, shot-guns, hunting-knives; the game-bags;
the decoration of the walls, showing the mask and brush of many a fox,
and the iridescent wings of scores of wild-fowl; the rugs scattered about
made of the pelts of wolves, catamounts, and bears of the region--all
served to contribute to the sylvan effect. But the glister of the
hardwood floor, waxed and polished; the luxury of the easy chairs and
sofas; the centre-table strewn with magazines and papers, beneath a
large lamp of rare and rich ware; the delicate aroma of expensive cigars,
were of negative, if not discordant, suggestion, and bespoke the more
sophisticated proclivities and training of the owner.
In the interval of awkward silence, Briscoe remained motionless in his
easy chair, a rueful reflectiveness on his genial face incongruous with
its habitual expression. When a sudden disconcerted intentness
developed upon it, Bayne, every instinct on the alert, took instant heed
of the change. The obvious accession of dismay betokened the
increasing acuteness of the crisis, and Briscoe's attitude, as of helpless

paralysis, stricken as it were into stone as he gazed toward the door,
heralded an approach.
There were light footfalls on the veranda, a sudden shadow at the door.
The next moment two ladies were entering, their hands full of autumn
leaves, trophies of their long walk. Bayne, summoning to his aid all the
conservative influences