THE WHITE DOVE By William J. Locke New York: John Lane Company 1899 O White Dove of the Pity Divine J. H. Skunk [Illustration: 0009] THE WHITE DOVE CHAPTER I--FATHER AND SON “ Life is a glorious thing,” said the girl. Sylvester Lanyon looked at her half in amusement, half in wistfulness. There was no doubt whatever of her sincerity. Therein lay the pathetic. To reply that the shadow of death and suffering clouded life's glory was too obvious a rejoinder. So he smiled and said,-- “Well?” “We ought to conquer it, make it our own, and live it to the full.” “If it is to be conquered by us weak wretches, it can't be such a glorious thing,” he remarked. “But who said we were weak wretches?” she retorted. “You're not one, and I'm not one!” She laughed, flushing a little. “No, I'm not,” she repeated. If Sylvester Lanyon had been endowed with the power of graceful words, here was a chance for a pretty compliment. It was challenged by the girl's self-conscious glance and by the splendid vitality of her youth; for Ella Defries usually carried the air of a conqueror with a certain sweet insolence. Some such idea passed vaguely through his mind, but, unable to express it, he said, shifting his ground lamely,-- “You see I'm getting elderly.” “Nonsense!” she said. “You're only five and thirty. My own age to a day.” “I don't quite follow,” said he. “A woman is always ten years older than a man. You ought to know that.” “And that proves?” “That you ought to go into the world and win fame and mix with the brilliant men and women in London who can appreciate you.” “I don't want to mix with more brilliant men and women than those who are under this _roof of Woodlands_,” said Sylvester. Ella flushed again, but this time she drooped her eyes and bent her head over her sewing for some time abandoned. A smile played round her lips. “Your Aunt Agatha, for instance.” “No, dear soul. The other two.” He rose and filled his pipe from a tobacco jar on the mantel-piece. The room, furnished with the solid mahogany and leather of a bygone generation, was his father's particular den, where, however, of all rooms in the house, he was least likely to find the privacy for which it was set apart. Ella, during her periodical visits to Ayresford, calmly monopolised it; Sylvester strolled in naturally from his widowed house over the way; Miss Agatha Lanyon, although she pretended to cough at the smoke, would leave her knitting promiscuously about on chairs and tables, while the little grandchild Dorothy spilled the ink with impunity over the Turkey carpet. There was a silence while Sylvester lit his pipe and settled down again in the leathern armchair by the fire. “I want no better company than the dear old man's, and yours,” said he. “My conversation is not fit for an intellectual man,” said Ella, with a humility that contrasted with her conquering attitude of a few moments before.