But I knew she mattered a great deal to Honey when I saw the girl's averted face, as, without wishing us good night, she hastened away. 66 CHAPTER XXI Say not a small event'! Why small? IFE may be a mission, or it may not, but God and Nature never intended it to be a martyrdom, and when Honey came up to Mary early in November, I found her an infinitely more lovable girl than when I knew her first. She faced the music in town with apparently as gay an unconcern as she had faced the country; she was at her best, and her original bent of character showed itself, now that the paralysis of her will in the struggle between her better and lower nature were over. There is a spiritual beauty, a beauty of suffering, of a struggle through pain to a higher one, that will shine through the clay and glorify it, until, as one of the greatest painters long ago said, often such spiritual grace becomes the only form of loveliness. that satisfies our eyes, making mere beauty of form and colour distasteful to us. Some such charm had come to poor Honey lately, together with a keener sensibility to the suffering of others. It is when we have lost the selfish serenity of perfect health, when we are nervous, trembling to each suggestion of pity, of kindness, that we feel for others, because we feel for them through ourselves; but when we are well and happy, often our nerves are of steel, and our sympathies are calloused through and through. The best men in Mary's set, shy of the house in Holford's time, closed round Honey, and quarrelled over her, not for her wealth, as many of them were far richer than she, but because they had the wit to see her worth and naturalness—it was the disposition, the heart of her, that shone through her body, and gladdened every soul with whom she came in contact, for men will always prefer a woman who feels deeply, to one who carries a cherrystone in her breast. I was a great deal in Brook Street during those November and December days that her brightness, and the company she brought about her, made to pass so cheerily; and it amused me to watch the play, observe the humours of her court, and Mary delighted in doing so also, and never felt out of it; she did not speak of age, or growing old, she was young inside all the way along. "You see," as she remarked one day, "I'm not like Sarah, who was lamenting the other day, that she could not go to the furrier's, and come up perfectly fresh and new, as her sables do under the rattan ; and I don't, like so many people, feel that the excessive exuberance of youth exasperates me by its waste, because, you know, I started with such a lot myself, and it has lasted well out." If she grew frailer daily, her spirit but burned the brighter, and brave Honey would never by look or word, even to me, admit that Mary was not very well indeed, only I saw how jealously she guarded her against fatigue, how vigilantly she watched her. I could not believe that this was the belligerent, passionate girl, at odds with the whole world, I had first met in that very house, a wreath of green leaves above her wilful brow, her red mouth curved into scornful anger with the world, and every thing and person in it, save Holford. And yet and yet-did Honey ever come to love me, I knew that with her temper and mine, we would have to come to close grips at last, before we settled down into good lovers and working comrades. And if Mary's eyes sometimes asked me an earnest, even pathetic question, I had no answer to give her, though I would have given much to comfort her, for to her had come the time when, no longer measuring her powers by her desires, and over-estimating them, she said, "I will do this and that," she became as a little child, depending on the love and pity of others, knowing that she would not depend in vain. But her intellect burned bright and clear, and there was no outward sign of disease upon her. She wanted light and laughter up to the very end, and, as she confided to me, anticipated death with that same eager curiosity which had distinguished her life, her only |