These were happy days for Arthur Golding, destined, indeed, to be the happiest of his life. Whilst he was hard at work all day with crayon or brush, studying theoretical works till far into the night, or rising with the sun to convert the theory into practice — whilst his thoughts between sleep and sleep, and all the happy visions which circled around his mind during the hours of repose, had their origin in but one idea, that the result of all this delightful labour would before long declare itself to the world in the shape of fame and fortune — he little knew that this labour must be its own reward, or look for none at all; that the happiness he yearned for was now absolutely existent, that the future held for him no single day that would not appear gloomy by the side of these glowing hours.

Similarly Helen Norman was progressing day by day in the struggle upwards and onwards, but in her case there was more consciousness of effort, and less of advance. Though she seemed to have chosen between two paths, resigning the constant care of her own intellect in favour of weary, and often seemingly ungrateful, labour in the cause of others, there was in reality no one of her thousand acts of sweetness, charity, and perseverance but reacted with tenfold effect upon her own nature, rendering her day by day more patient and enduring, as well as bolder, in the campaign against the mistakes and the vices of society upon which she had entered. For her, too, in all likelihood, this was the happiest period of her life, though she was as little conscious of the fact as Arthur. In these days, when the energy of young enthusiasm wrought up her strength to the performance of any severe or disgusting toil, when as yet she could see nothing but the bright results of her efforts, and firmly believed that every new day would add to this brightness, she did indeed experience true happiness. When Mr. Heatherley met her from time to time in the course of her daily visits, and saw her lovely features aglow with the fire of boundless benevolence, and that active virtue, which is so very different a thing from the mere passive virtue upon which her sex, for the most part, prides itself, he could not but marvel in his mind that any impulse other than that of religion could give the spur to such wonderful exertions.

On the other hand, the more Helen saw of the clergyman the more she respected him. If he marvelled at the inspiration which Helen derived from her natural religion, the latter, in her turn, could not but admire Mr. Heatherley’s abounding charity. For, with a generous divergence from the letter of his creed, the latter held that the merit of good works was not solely dependent upon the faith of their performer; there was such a thing, he maintained, as unconsciously fulfilling the Gospel; and, far from esteeming error damnable, he looked upon it as deserving the most tender pity and consideration. So from the first, Helen Norman, with her noble and generous freethinking, had been to Mr. Heatherley an object of wonder at times almost of reverence. Was it not a truth that the ways of God are not the ways of men, and could he for a moment believe that the eternal law of justice would permit the coexistence in one bosom of such heavenly purity of intention with heresy in doctrine nothing less than blasphemous? Surely this was but one phase in the life of a soul struggling towards the truth.

Despite all this, Helen was frequently made to feel those other points, besides mere intellectual attitude, upon which there was no contact between them. Whereas her own nature was richly poetical — esteeming poetry the perfection of the noble faculty of speech, as the highest outward expression of that law of perpetual striving which alone she worshipped — Mr. Heatherley’s, she soon learnt, was only in a very moderate degree appreciative of anything apart from the hard details of social life. They agreed in believing that, for the present, their scene of duty was the earth, their work amidst the misery with which it abounded; but whilst Helen idealised everything she looked upon, he viewed all things alike in the light of common day; where she saw higher significances, he saw merely facts. Such was indeed the necessary result of their difference in religious views. The man who convinces himself that he has ever at his elbow the key to the mystery of the universe, whose profession it is to make manifest to the world that he has this key, and to apply it for everyone’s behoof, who conceives that the great laws of duty have long ago been written down in black and white for the use of man, and are not capable of discovery otherwise; such a man cannot but regard the world in a more or less prosaic light, compared with the point of view of one who recognises no patent key as in existence, for whom the mystery of life and death begins and ends with a vast doubt, whose every thought is the fruit of, and leads to, boundless conjecture, and who is compelled at length to confess with the poet, that

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Some such thoughts as these had occupied Helen’s mind on her way homeward one afternoon early in August, when in body she was fatigued almost past endurance, though her reflecting powers were no less vivid than ordinary. On her arrival in Portland Place, instead of mounting to her room she repaired forthwith to the library, which she knew was always empty at this hour, after giving orders that a cup of tea should be brought to her there. Throwing off her hat, she allowed herself to sink into the luxury of an easy chair, and was continuing her reflections, when the door opened suddenly and Maud entered, equipped for riding.

“You here!” she exclaimed to Helen. “I was that moment imagining you in some frightful cellar, or else garret, scattering your gold like a beneficent fairy to a whole family of destitute drunkards. But really, Helen, you are as pale as a ghost. You are working yourself to death, depend upon it. If I were an Irishwoman, I would add that you will acknowledge I am right when you actually are dead. I just came in to have a look at my pistols. I think you haven’t seen them yet?”

With that she proceeded to open one of the drawers in the centre-table, of which she took the key from her pocket, and to take from it two small American revolvers, holding one in each hand, and regarding them with the peculiar ironical smile which she had learnt from her father.

“They’re both loaded,” she said, calmly.

“Do you say they are yours, Maud?” asked Helen, in surprise.

“Yes; I bought them in the Strand, last Monday.”

“But whatever for?”

“What for? Why, you know I am on the point of being married.”

“And what is the connection between the two circumstances?” asked Helen.

Maud shrugged her shoulders, once more examined the pistols carefully, replaced them in the drawer, and locked them up.

“One can never foresee what may happen,” she said at length. “Supposing robbers broke into one’s room at night. There are a thousand contingencies rendering the possession of such little defenders very desirable.”

Helen was silent and thoughtful. At this moment a servant brought in her tea.

“Bring me a cup, too, will you, Mary?” said Maud. Then, turning to her friend, “It will strengthen me to endure my ride.”

“Where is your ride to be today?” asked Helen.

“Where, my dear child? Why, in the Row, of course. Where else can a civilised person ride, I should like to know. Waghorn calls for me at four.”

“Do you enjoy your ride in the Row?”

“Enjoy it? My dear Helen, you grow more na?ve every day. Is it meant to be enjoyed, think you? Do you suppose that any soul ever does enjoy it?”

“It is somewhat difficult to account for their persisting in the practice if it brings them no enjoyment,” returned Helen.

“Duty, Helen, duty. Do not suppose that you philanthropists monopolise that article. We go to the Row to show ourselves, and purely from a sense of duty. Society requires it of us. Who would venture to question the dictates of society?”

“But I suppose the dictates of society are sometimes one with those of pleasure?”

“Give me a single instance in which they are,” returned Maud, “and I’ll — allow you to congratulate me on my wedding-day. Which, bye-the-by, I herewith seriously forbid you to do, Helen Norman.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I esteem you too highly, my dear girl, to allow you to make a hypocrite of yourself out of deference to these same social rules of which we have been speaking.”

There was silence for some time, which Helen was the first to break.

“You could hardly regard the concert last night as disagreeable,” she said. “Mr. Gresham told me that it was admirable.”

“Never trust papa,” returned Maud, “especially when he praises anything or anybody. He does so purely out of deference to your optimistic views; for, you must know, papa is a trifle afraid of you. I assure you the concert was fatiguing to the last degree.”

“Do you ever enjoy anything, Maud?”

“Yes, Helen.”

“What, may I ask?”

“Why, talking with you. It seems to do me good to mingle my insipid ideas with your vigorous, healthy thoughts. It refreshes me to come into contact with your genuine nature, after feeding my littleness upon the affected admiration of fools. You see I can be severe in a downright manner when I choose, Helen, and upon myself, too.”

Helen did not reply, but enjoyed her tea with gravity.

“Do you know, Helen,” pursued the talkative young lady, “I have only seen one person in my life very much like you. Can you guess who it is?”

“I fear not.”

“You will be surprised. I mean Mr. Golding.”

Helen looked up with a surprised smile.

“What are the points of resemblance?” she asked.

“Many. You are both grave habitually, and enthusiastic upon occasion You are both furious advocates of what you will permit me to call the canaille, their rights and wrongs. You have both a manner of smiling quite peculiar, and which, to atone for the other expression, I may perhaps be permitted to call angelic. Also you are both, in conclusion, extraordinarily good-looking.”

“How can you know all this of Mr. Golding?” asked Helen, smiling.

“Oh, I frequently have a little conversation with him in the studio of a morning. I find him rather interesting.”

“Upon what subjects has he waxed enthusiastic to you?”

“Principally upon the merits of an old gentleman with whom, it seems, he has lived for many years, but whose name is a trifle uncouth, and I forget it. Oh, I know! Tollady — Mr. Tollady. To hear Mr. Golding speak of him, he must be an angel, before whom even you, Helen, must veil your wings. He impoverishes himself by giving to the poor, and has been known to walk home shoeless at night that a beggar’s feet might be shod.”

Helen listened with an expression of the most lively interest upon her features, but made no remark.

“But I shall cease my connection with Mr. Golding,” pursued Maud.

“Why?”

“His enthusiasm is contagious. If I talked to him for an hour every day during a week he would scatter my calm philosophy to the winds.”

Helen made no reply.

“It is very unfortunate,” said Maud, “that his position is so ambiguous.”

“In what sense ambiguous?” asked Helen.

“Why, you know, he is not, to begin with, what the world calls a gentleman.”

“Indeed! Has he been rude to you?”

“Far from it.”

“What has he done, then, to forfeit the title of a gentleman?”

“He never owned it, Helen. He must have been as poor as a church mouse all his life, and Heaven forbid that he should disclose how he got his living always.”

“Are you speaking seriously, Maud?”

“Quite seriously, Helen, as the mouthpiece of the world, which you know is the character I love to adopt.”

“But as the mouthpiece of your own thoughts?”

“Why, what is your opinion?”

“I never saw him act, or heard him speak otherwise than as a gentleman, on the two occasions I had for speaking to him.”

“Well, when I speak of his ambiguous position, I mean to say one is not quite sure whether one ought to talk to him as an equal or not.”

“That I consider an unworthy doubt, Maud.”

“You have no scruples in the matter?”

“I confess that I have not. If I wish to do so, I shall speak with as much freedom to Mr. Golding as to Mr. Gresham.”

“You consider him an equal?”

“In many respects, my superior,” replied Helen, unconsciously straightening herself, as was her habit when desirous of speaking with special force. “As an artist he has shown that he possesses genius, and that is a property I bow to wherever I meet it.”

“The genius Mr. Golding owns is, unfortunately, not always so useful as its namesakes of the ‘Arabian Nights.’ Genius is highly agreeable company in the world’s estimation as long as it is able to keep a carriage; but genius in rags is the most objectionable of mendicants.”

“And can you rank yourself, Maud, on the side of a world with principles such as these?”

“Don’t say can; the proper word is must. Depend upon it, the world is too strong for an individual will to combat. It will conquer, sooner or later. The difference between you and me, Helen, is, that whilst you are determined to fight out the struggle to the bitter end, I, rather more sensible, I flatter myself, calculate the chances to begin with, and give in at once.”

“Well,” said Helen, with a sigh, “if I am fated to be beaten, I still think it will be a consolation to me to remember that I struggled. But why do you always practise this insincerity with me, Maud? I know quite well you think far other than you speak.”

“You know that?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Well, well. Then you know more of me, Helen, than I do of myself. But here is John. You are very late, sir.”

These words were addressed to Mr. John Waghorn, who just then entered the library, looking, if possible, even more respectable in his riding clothes than he had done in evening dress.

There was, however, today, a certain sallowness in his cheeks, and a slight heaviness about the eyes, which, in any less respectable man, would have awakened a strong suspicion that he had been “making a night of it” the evening before, and had but very lately risen from bed. In Mr. John Waghorn’s case this supposition was, of course, inadmissible. Doubtless the “seedy” look could be attributed to undue strain in business matters.

“May not we have the pleasure of Miss Norman’s company?” he asked, in an accent of much politeness.

“Thank you,” returned Helen, with a not altogether successful effort to conceal the dislike she had of the speaker; “I never ride.”

“Pity, that,” remarked Mr. Waghorn. “The Row is a loser by your absence.”

“I thought you had already learnt that Miss Norman does not care for compliments, put in Maud. “Besides, all your esprit in that direction should be reserved for me. Are you ready?”

“I wait your pleasure,” returned Mr. Waghorn, turning to Maud with a smile of remarkable insipidity, very different from the bold look of genuine admiration with which his eyes had rested upon Helen.

They walked together to the front door, where their horses awaited them, and rode away in silence, with a distance of ten feet between them. Strangers viewing them as they passed took them for man and wife.

Helen, when left alone, took up her hat with a sigh, and ascended to he............